


The Games We Play

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: T-34 (2018)
Genre: And also some feels, M/M, the fanfic we all needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 51,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: "Whatever had saved them… seemingly saved Jäger as well. Ivushkin’s jaw dropped to the ground as he watched, with a mixture of awe and horror, as the German emerged from the water and stubbornly dragged himself out, pulling his body with one arm to the safety of the bank. Ivushkin’s crew went to stand next to him to see what had surprised him so much, and he was vaguely aware of a comment in the lines of ‘That Fritz must be the devil.’ Ivushkin was inclined to believe that.It felt like the only logical explanation."Alternatively...Jäger is a pain in the arse but he deserves some love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I watched the movie and found no fics. Outrageous.  
> Ended up writing one. Please enjoy the cake.

Ivushkin stared for a moment at where the German and his tank disappeared in the water, together with debris. He was torn between interpreting it as an act of cowardice to avoid capture, or a gesture of nobility as it would have been risky for Ivushkin to pull the German to safety. He kept staring to the water below as his crew exited their tank, exhilarated for being alive. Ivushkin believed they were the luckiest men alive, because competence alone couldn’t have possibly saved them.

Whatever had saved them… seemingly saved Jäger as well. Ivushkin’s jaw dropped to the ground as he watched, with a mixture of awe and horror, as the German emerged from the water and stubbornly dragged himself out, pulling his body with one arm to the safety of the bank. Ivushkin’s crew went to stand next to him to see what had surprised him so much, and he was vaguely aware of a comment in the lines of ‘That Fritz must be the devil.’ Ivushkin was inclined to believe that.

It felt like the only logical explanation.

Ivushkin commanded his men to remove their wounded comrade from the tank and hide in the woods outside the village. He would join them after inspecting Jäger – the last thing they needed was that particularly insistent German to continue the chase. Despite being convinced he wouldn’t need the rifle, Ivushkin’s men made him take it with him.

Stumbling and finally crawling, Ivushkin made his way down the steep side of the river, holding on handfuls of grass to stop himself from rolling down in an uncontrollable fall. Finally, the terrain became planer near the bank, where Jäger was lying on his back with a foot still in the water.

When Ivushkin got near the German and bent over him, he wasn’t even sure Jäger was still alive: he looked too pale, his lips too blueish, and his eyes were closed. The water had almost completely washed away the blood from his face. But just when Ivushkin thought he had gone to look at a dead man, Jäger’s eyes flew open and he coughed a mixture of water and blood, making a visibly pained expression.

They stared at each other for a moment. Ivushkin noticed Jäger’s left arm, stretched next to his body, was at an awkward angle, and so was his right leg. Ivushkin frowned when Jäger suddenly chuckled, baring bloodstained teeth:

“It must be because we share the same name…” Jäger muttered, though Ivushkin only understood ‘name’. Still, he assumed what the German was talking about and grinned.

Stupid, insane, pitiful Jäger. Mechanically, Ivushkin aimed the rifle at Jäger’s head. The German coughed and stared at him, exhausted, though the amused grin never left his face. Ivushkin could shoot Jäger. He should shoot Jäger. It was his patriotic duty – and, considering how their lives had intertwined and the four atrocious years of captivity that followed for Ivushkin, he was entitled to pull the trigger.

Yet, he slowly lowered the rifle, frowning. It was twice, in less than half an hour, that Ivushkin couldn’t kill Jäger like that. He assumed it would be like shooting a man who was already dead, because Jäger had seemed injured when he had crawled out of the tank, and that fall could have only broken more bones in his body – god knew what kind of injury his organs had sustained!

Ivushkin shook his head and hung the rifle on his shoulder, again. His ears were still ringing and the river sounded like a roaring beast; yet, as he turned his back at Jäger, he still heard the thundering of running boots and the purring of engines. And shouting in German.

Ivushkin, in the open like that, was a sitting duck. He immediately stood still and raised his hands above his head, hoping that, because he was the commander and the idea of escaping had been his, the German soldiers would come for him, and his crew would successfully escape. Ivushkin would be furious at them if they tried to to come to his aid. He shut his eyes and cursed under his breath, sparing a guilty thought at Anya. He should have left the moment Jäger had fallen…

* * *

 

The spotlights’ searing light filled the dark countryside. Ivushkin was pushed out of the truck by the stock of a rifle. He stumbled and nearly fell, but a guard caught him by the arm and pulled him up again.

Either way, Ivushkin was a dead man. The other prisoners would see him return alone without his comrades and would assume he was indeed working for the Nazis. That, if he wasn’t immediately taken to a firing squad to serve as example.

He glanced over his shoulder, bitterly, to see two guards take Jäger from another truck, in a stretcher. Jäger had been conscious when the German troops tumbled down the riverside to capture Ivushkin and rescue him, and when he turned his head, Ivushkin realised the German was still – or perhaps was again – conscious.

Despite the severely beaten and pained look on his face, Jäger’s eyes had the same disturbing intensity as he locked eyes with Ivushkin:

“Not there,” Jäger barked in a hoarse voice, addressing the guard that had begun to lead Ivushkin into the prisoners' complex.

The guard complied and steered Ivushkin in the opposite direction. Ivushkin frowned, suspicious at what Jäger had in store for him. Insist with target practice? Torture him to death for the humiliation of defeat? Whatever it was, Ivushkin was certain it would still end up with him dying, but it was always better to die at the hands of the enemy than at the hands of deceived compatriots.

Though his rifle had been confiscated, Ivushkin was shackled before the guard allowed him to get in the officers’ complex after Jäger, and they were both led to the infirmary. But, while Jäger was taken to a surgery room, Ivushkin was merely given basic medical assistance, then led away by two guards.

Ivushkin could barely believe as he was taken into Jäger’s personal quarters and left there, alone and shackled and locked inside. In the dimness, Ivushkin paced around a little, looking around. He was tired and sore. Better, exhausted, and his limbs were made of lead. He hadn’t eaten nor drank anything since the previous night, and among all the pain from the battle he was suddenly aware of an incoming stomach-ache from the hunger. Or maybe it was an anxiety knot for not having kept his word to Anya when he could have. He staggered to a corner of the room and sat down, sighing in relief for finally taking the weight off his legs.

Still, for a man who was doomed and upset at his last choice, he felt strangely peaceful. Ivushkin tilted his head back to lean it on the wall and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

For the next two days, Ivushkin was alone. Only a guard came in to leave him a tray with food and water at the end of the day. Ivushkin spent the time staring around blankly, vaguely aware of steps outside in the corridor and of shouts in the camp. He thought bitterly on how he had been a free man again, a soldier, but was back to square one. At least, his crew and Anya seemed to have escaped, because the German soldiers hadn’t looked further in the woods after reaching him and Jäger.

On the third day, Ivushkin startled awaken to the sound of shouts _and_ music. The wood shutters in the room were ajar, letting in a comfortable amount of light. Looking around, Ivushkin found Jäger sitting at the table, eating, while a gramophone at the desk played what sounded like an opera. Ivushkin merely stared, but his stomach complained loudly, rumbling for being empty. With a frown, he slowly rose to his feet. Everything hurt.

It didn’t take long for Jäger to see him and signal him to approach.

Looking around suspiciously, Ivushkin walked to the table, noticing that there was a second tray with food and drink on it. His stomach complained loudly again, but certainly Jäger was expecting another officer to discuss Ivushkin’s fate.

Surprisingly, Jäger signalled Ivushkin to sit on the vacant chair, then pointed at the food. Jäger almost looked like he hadn’t nearly died three days ago: he wore a clean and dry uniform, colour was back to his face and lips, his hair was combed neatly, he was washed and shaved and, aside from small cuts and bruises on his face and hands, he looked like he usually did. But his left arm was put in a sling and hung on his chest, he was sitting so stiffly Ivushkin immediately understood his ribs must be broken and his chest was bandaged, and the crutch resting against his chair gave away that he had indeed injured a leg. Ivushkin could perfectly imagine Jäger, against every bit of common sense, sneaking out of the infirmary while the medics had their backs turned – because no man would be allowed to leave only three days after falling into what should have been his death.

Despite all that, however, Jäger looked as determined and entertained as when Ivushkin had first been called to his presence to discuss the training, days ago.

In fact, Jäger looked even more entertained, and he seemed particularly pleased when Ivushkin sat across him and began to eat and drink avidly, for once forgotten that a man who was going to die didn’t need a full stomach.

Ivushkin was still aware of Jäger’s intense gaze on him, and he eventually looked up to meet Jäger’s eyes. The German looked thoroughly amused, and he could only be insane:

“Smart and bold, Ivushkin. I like that. Even if you almost got me in trouble!” he said with a toothy grin, but Ivushkin couldn’t quite understand what he was being told. He was sure, however, that the German was not thanking him for the spectacle of target-practice. “I’ve got something else you can do: you are going to work with the mechanics and repair vehicles and tanks,” His grin broadened. “And this time you will be under surveillance, and you won’t fool me again.”

Ivushkin understood ‘mechanic’, and from there deduced what Jäger wanted from him. He was so surprised he stopped eating, merely looking at Jäger like he had grown a second head. Jäger merely grinned, like he was having a lot of fun with the whole thing, and Ivushkin understood he was in a situation worse than that of a man convicted to die.

Jäger would definitely make him look like a traitor in the eyes of the other Russian prisoners, and instead of freeing him through death, would keep him imprisoned. Ivushkin shook his head no, slowly, and that only made Jäger grin wider and wider, baring his teeth:

“That, or solitary…” Jäger narrowed his eyes, and added in a thick accent and bad pronounce. “Odinochnoye zaklyucheniye…”

Ivushkin clenched his jaw, feeling the noose tightening around his neck. He didn’t want to cooperate with the Nazis, but he also didn’t want to be put in solitary and _have no chance at all_ of fighting the Nazis. He figured that, if he accepted the offer as mechanic, he could always try to sabotage the vehicles when no one was looking. His compatriots would still think him a traitor, but his conscience would be clear; besides, it was another chance at humiliating Jäger. He lowered his gaze again and proceeded to eat:

“Mechanic…”

* * *

 

Ivushkin discovered he had no chances at sabotaging: there was a guard assigned to constantly keep an eye on him when the other four mechanics weren’t looking, and his daily route consisted of being escorted from Jäger’s quarters to the workshop in the morning, then back to Jäger’s quarters for lunch, then back to the workshop, and then return to Jäger’s quarters. Ivushkin didn’t have a single moment for himself, because Jäger had installed him in his own private room and forced him to share of his company. At night, the door was locked with a key that Jäger kept in a chain around his neck together with his dog-tags, and guards had been placed all around the perimeter just in case Ivushkin tried to escape by the windows. The thought of strangling Jäger in his sleep crossed Ivushkin’s mind almost every night, but he wouldn’t achieve much despite the personal satisfaction of getting rid of him – the moment he stepped out of the door, guards would seize him, and would kill him once they found Jäger dead.

Ivushkin believed he would have more chances alive, so every night he lied down on the couch to sleep and remained there until the next day.

For almost an entire year, Ivushkin’s life was sleeping on the couch, having fairly decent meals while listening to Jäger’s monologues about the fortune of the war or listening to some German music from the gramophone, and trying to find an opportunity to sabotage the various vehicles he had to work on. When Jäger couldn’t be present, a guard would keep an eye on Ivushkin while he ate alone. For months, Ivushkin would think of his crew, and of Anya, and would feel bitter and angry, which would fuel him to stick to his plan of sabotaging. Yet, as time went by, Ivushkin grew tired of his routine, and the faces in his thoughts began to blur around the edges. Only his goal remained unchanged.

Ivushkin despised Jäger because they were enemies, captive and captor, liberator and oppressor, but he had to admit Jäger was fascinating in a puzzling, sinister way: sometimes the German would be sitting quietly, chewing at his pipe while listening to music and going through paperwork or tinkering with transmission devices; sometimes Jäger was a little tornado of chaotic energy, pacing around with an insane glint in his eyes and playing with the SS ring on his finger. Ivushkin couldn’t help but feel drawn to that man and study him avidly, looking for an exploitable weakness. They didn’t talk much, mostly because Ivushkin didn’t want to – he had no doubts Jäger would be up for chatting, he was ridiculously (dangerously) friendly despite everything that had happened – but there were evenings spent together at Jäger’s desk, each busy fixing a clock or wristwatch or headphones, with cheerful German songs in the background that Jäger would sing along to, lowly. Those evenings, Ivushkin liked them. He could almost forget where he was, who he had abandoned to their luck and who was there with him. Ivushkin found intriguing how a high-ranking officer could be so genuinely entertained by manual work. A pity Jäger was on the wrong side of the war.

* * *

 

Until the routine began to change.

Ivushkin noticed that Jäger would spend more time listening to the news in the radio than to his military marches and classical music. Though Ivushkin couldn’t understand what was being said, he did recognise Jäger listened to German and English news, and that made him hopeful about the outcome of the war. He also noticed the German spent less time playing with small devices and stared more at maps, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe. There was an angry veil on his chaotic energy, and every time Ivushkin looked at the German, he thought of a snake coiling before attacking.

One day, evacuation began. Ivushkin was on his way to the workshop and watched how prisoners were being lined up to be led to a train that would take them to another, further inland camp, and how material of all sorts was being loaded into trucks. That made him smile widely and openly, because evacuation meant the Soviet troops were advancing and that the Nazis were losing the war in the eastern front (and, hopefully, in the western as well). His assigned guard punched him in the face, but even with a split lip Ivushkin kept smiling defiantly.

He was certain that he too would be evacuated, until eventually there would be nowhere else to go and the Soviet army would free him and the other prisoners. With luck, Ivushkin would blend in with different prisoners and avoid the death of a traitor – that, of course, if Jäger didn’t dispose of him first.

During that first day of evacuation, Jäger was nowhere to be seen in his quarters, leaving Ivushkin alone with the guard, which was almost the same as Ivushkin being alone with his shadow.

During the second day of evacuation, Ivushkin would sometimes see Jäger coming back and forth outside the workshop, surrounded by other officers and soldiers and carrying files under his arm and barking orders.

By the third day of evacuation, Ivushkin remained inside Jäger’s quarters because the other mechanics were leaving and the vehicles they were working on were being destroyed. Ivushkin figured that was finally the day he would die, and he felt strangely calm and peaceful about that. Perhaps, because deep down he knew the Nazis had already lost the war. Certainly, because his consciousness was clear as to how he had not been a traitor. He could have escaped, if he hadn’t been curious; then he had been patient and had looked for an opportunity to act, just like he would have done with a tank, because patience to wait for the right time was what won battles – but time had been short.

So, when Jäger returned with a guard carrying two trays, Ivushkin knew the time had come. He would still play that game the German liked so much, a last merciful act because then Jäger would have no one to show him mercy again.

They sat next to each other at the table, Jäger dismissed the guard and began to eat. There was no music and the German seemed dangerously collected. Ivushkin began to eat his last meal:

“You lost,” he told Jäger in the little German he had learned from his time in captivity. He didn’t smile smugly, but savoured the food like he was eating an exquisite dish he had never tried before. That made Jäger lift his eyes to look at him, and the German tilted his head and smirked like he was the keeper of an important, fortune-changing secret. All too lucid for a delusional man, all too free for a cornered beast:

“I lost _once_ ,” Jäger replayed, baring his teeth in a grin. “I won’t lose again.”

Ivushkin merely snorted and proceeded to eat, noticing that, as he emptied his dish, he began to feel thirsty. He drank the wine from his glass avidly, but his thirst only increased.

And he began to feel… hot. Thirsty, hot, and heavy. He frowned at looked at Jäger, who had finished his meal as well and was watching with macabre interest:

“Son of a bitch…” Ivushkin grunted as dark spots began to fill his vision. Poison. Ivushkin had honestly expected something… more honourable, judging how Jäger had thrown his glove on the ground to defy him to duel. Jäger leaned forwards, until all Ivushkin could see before falling into the void were his stunning blue eyes:

“As I said… I won’t lose again,” Jäger hissed.

* * *

 

There was a sound, a loud purr or growling, but it was not the familiar sound of a tank engine. The air was cool around him, but wherever he was, it was a tight space that didn’t let him stretch his legs forwards, nor turn from side to side. Ivushkin frowned, but he was still too numbed to open his eyes and to actually think about his surroundings. Slowly, he drifted back to unconsciousness.

A violent jolt had Ivushkin jerking forwards and widening his eyes as he gasped in surprise. Everything was dark, there was still the purr/growling and he was moving, until it came to a slow halt and everything was silent. He stood still, panting and eyeing his surroundings nervously, and discovered he was under the night sky in a tight compartment.

It was a cockpit, and the canopy was open, and a dark figure wearing a pilot's helmet reached out for him. Ivushkin was too confused to fully process everything, and he allowed the figure to manoeuvre him out of the tight space and toss him to the ground.

After landing with a huff, Ivushkin noticed he was wrapped up in blankets, and that he had been tossed from an airplane. It was too dark to see the airplane, but to carry a crew of two it could be a Heinkel, based on Ivushkin’s basic knowledge of enemy aircraft. The dark figure had removed his own headgear and had produced a jerrycan from the cockpit, then proceeded to pour its content – fuel, judging by the smell – all over the airplane.

Ivushkin frowned, and he knew only one man crazy enough to fly an airplane somewhere remote, land in the dark, and then set the airplane on fire:

“What are you doing??” he asked. His voice was hoarse and his throat was dry. He coughed, but figured that instead of being poisoned, he had been drugged. Some barbiturate? Either way, he was alive and certainly not in the camp anymore. Which was… extremely unsettling.

But Jäger couldn’t have possibly flew them somewhere only to then set the airplane on fire, kill Ivushkin and go his merry way.

Ivushkin had no reply to his question, and he watched in confused horror as Jäger jumped to the ground and walked towards him, pouring down fuel as he walked. Once he reached Ivushkin, he discarded the jerrycan, lighted a match and dropped it on the fuel.

A fiery trail snaked towards the airplane. Ivushkin tried to jump to his feet to run away, but he was firmly tied up. He cursed, watching with wide eyes as the fire approached the airplane, and cursed again when Jäger pulled him up and laid him on his shoulder, still in his cocoon of blankets. Ivushkin could only stare in shock at the airplane as Jäger jogged away, and he flinched and closed his eyes as the fire finally reached the airplane and a violent blast set the night ablaze.

But they weren’t hit by the blast, and soon Jäger had reached the nearby woods and his jog slowed to a walk, as he manoeuvred carefully among the trees and stepped cautiously to avoid stumbling. It was late Winter, there were remnants of snow and ice and the woods were eerily silent, with no owls to be heard, nor any animal to be seen. After walking for a while, Jäger had reached a part of the woods where the trees grew too close together and no starlight or moonlight could reach them. It was also chillier there, and the snow sounded deeper and ticker under Jäger’s boots. The burning airplane was also too distant to be of any use to light the way.

Jäger put Ivushkin down and made him sit straight against a fallen tree trunk, then sat next to him and pulled up his knees to his chest, to try to protect himself from the cold:

“What’s happening?” Ivushkin asked once more in a whisper, looking around warily. It was useless, though: there was only darkness, with the occasional star peeking from above among the tree branches:

“You tried to help me, once,” Jäger replied, confidently using his normal voice tone. Ivushkin assumed they should be somewhere the German considered safe. “And now I helped you. Again.”

“ _Again??_ ” Though he couldn’t see Jäger’s face, Ivushkin was certain he had one of those sly grins of his:

“Your compatriots would have killed you, both prisoners and liberators,” Jäger explained, putting as much venom as possible in the last word. Ivushkin frowned, feeling a sudden knot in his stomach:

“Where are we?”

“Switzerland.”

Ivushkin went quiet and still, staring at Jäger’s dark shape in shock before struggling against his restraints again, uselessly. He was done with being a prisoner, and he had no wish to find out Jäger’s real reasons to bring him along. For all he knew, they could still be in Germany and Jäger was simply playing a game:

“You’re no idiot, Ivushkin. And I was assigned another camp,” Jäger said in a serious tone that made Ivushkin interrupt his struggle. “It would be a shame to see you dead.”

Ivushkin didn’t know enough German to articulate something as coherent as asking why Jäger hadn’t simply released him in a place where he could find the Soviet army. Yet he soon answered his own unvoiced question by concluding that, even if he found the Red Army and mingled with them to march over the camp and release their compatriots, eventually one of the prisoners would find him, accuse him of treason… and that would be his end. The chances were slim, but they existed: as such, they should be considered.

Besides, though he hadn’t had the time to see it, Ivushkin knew how exalted men were hard to control:

“You left your Führer,” he sneered, and that earned him a scoff from the German, though his voice came out tight:

“I can’t perform miracles with unqualified soldiers. A strategical retreat was my best option.”

Which made them both traitors, and thus Ivushkin’s next question of ‘why Switzerland’ was answered: as far as he knew, Switzerland was a neutral, safe country. There would still be spies, though, and the war had still not come to an end. Ivushkin then thought what was he going to do, then. Jäger couldn’t possibly be planning on dragging him along, and Ivushkin had no wish of staying any more time with the German.

For the time being, however, he couldn’t do anything.

* * *

 

He woke up at dawn, feeling suddenly cold as Jäger undid his cocoon of blankets to cut the ropes tying his ankles and legs. Because Ivushkin was wearing his prisoner uniform, Jäger wrapped him again in the blankets and pulled him up. Then, holding his arm in a tight grip, led the way through the woods.

Jäger would stop sometimes to consult a map and compass he kept in a pocket of his jacket. He carried a full backpack and a canister that Ivushkin presumed to contain food instead of the gas mask it was supposed to have. They walked for a long time; Ivushkin’s legs ached, and his shoes, not half as sturdy as Jäger’s boots, did little to protect his feet from the residual snow and ice and rough terrain. There was no talking between them and Jäger made no pause for drinking and eating. Ivushkin presumed the German wanted to cover as much distance as possible with daylight available, and that he had a clear objective in mind. But that much time without water and food, and walking like that, had Ivushkin feeling slightly nauseated.

Ivushkin thought he was going to collapse sooner or later, but fortunately Jäger stopped to consult his map and compass again and Ivushkin seized the opportunity to sit down for a moment and close his eyes a little to try and appease his nausea. For a blissful couple of minutes, he was able to alleviate his sore legs and feet from his weight, and the pause seemed to soften his nausea. Unfortunately, Jäger was quick to read the map and pulled Ivushkin up to force him to walk again.

The sun was high in the sky when they reached the end of the woods, and Jäger stopped under the cover of the last trees and overgrowth to observe the little village by the lakeside situated down the hill, nested between mountains in the east and west. It looked peaceful and straight from a painting, like the world wasn’t at war. Ivushkin had always thought there would be restlessness in the air in a neutral country, and that there would be preparations in case of invasion. Especially with Germany so close. Yet, everything was quiet, with nothing to be heard despite the singing of birds. It was somewhat unsettling to witness all that peacefulness after what had happened to him recently, and Ivushkin looked around nervously, expecting to find a sign that the peace was fake and that enemy soldiers would jump at him, that tanks would come rolling from the depths of the woods and that airplanes would cross the skies and bombard the little village.

Jäger sat down, pulling him along, and nothing attacked them.

* * *

 

Dusk was covering the world in shadows when Jäger jumped to his feet and pulled Ivushkin up. Ivushkin, thirsty and hungry and sore, had fallen into a dreamless sleep shortly after they arrived to the end of the woods. He had understood Jäger hadn’t brought any water or food, and he noticed the German, too, looked slightly ill by the lack of hydration and nutrition. Yet he seemed to be able to sustain himself with determination, and they marched downhill quickly, heading towards a farm isolated from the village by ploughed fields and a small brook that ran towards the lake near the village.

Ivushkin grunted in discomfort when he had to step into the brook and cross it. The water reached the middle of his shins and it was freezing. He then cursed lowly when Jäger made them cross the ploughed field, the soft and turned over dirt collapsing under their weight and making them sink slightly and lose their balance and overall walk with difficulty. If Jäger was trying to sneak into the farm, using a shortcut instead of the road, that could only mean he didn’t want to be seen. Ivushkin wondered to what sort of new hell he was being dragged into, and if only he had run to freedom when he could have…

Finally, they reached the end of the field and the dirt became hard and stable under their feet. Jäger made a beeline to the waist-high wood fence that separated the ploughed field from the farm yard and he helped Ivushkin go over it before crossing it himself.

A large barn stood nearby, and since they were sneaking around, Ivushkin presumed Jäger would go to the barn. Instead, the German pulled him towards the house that, judging by the light coming through the curtained windows on the ground floor, was occupied. Ivushkin frowned in confusion as they crossed the yard, climbed the steps to the front deck and stopped at the door.

Without as much as explaining his intentions to Ivushkin, Jäger knocked vigorously and waited. Ivushkin figured that, if he wanted answers, he would have to ask:

“Who lives here?” To that, Jäger replied by grinning one of his self-confident grins. The German looked suddenly very amused, and he tilted his head up in a gesture of petty superiority as he left Ivushkin in suspense.

The door opened to reveal a woman, who widened her eyes and stared in shock at the two men by her doorstep. She had the same hair- and eye-colour as Jäger, the same nose, the same thin and sharp lips and even seemed to be the same age. Ivushkin looked from the woman to the German, then back to the woman, then finally to the German again, whose mocking grin had in the meantime turned into an actual _radiant smile_. Ivushkin understood Jäger and this woman were siblings – such an unexpected twist his imprisonment had taken!

Finally, the woman overcame her shock and pulled Jäger to a tight hug that was promptly replied. Jäger released Ivushkin’s arm to properly hold the woman close, giving Ivushkin the opportunity to realise something he had never been aware of: Jäger, despite being a Nazi, must have come from somewhere – he couldn’t have possibly sprouted from the ground, so he had to have a family. This was clearly his sister, so probably he had nephews, perhaps a wife and children of his own. Ivushkin frowned and clenched his jaw: by having gone to check on Jäger when he dragged himself to the river bank, Ivushkin had thrown away his own chance at going back home to his own family. His numbed hatred towards the German surged forwards again in all might.

The woman pulled away from Jäger and frowned at him, then turned her gaze – as intense as her brother’s – to Ivushkin:

“Who’s this?” she asked and looked back at Jäger, her frown replaced by such disapproval Ivushkin immediately felt the woman had to be quite different from her brother. “What have you done now, Klaus??”

But Jäger merely smiled – innocently, Ivushkin presumed – held Ivushkin again and tried to go inside. The woman, however, spread her arms and barred the way:

“Answer me!” she demanded dryly. Ivushkin admired this woman, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he noticed Jäger slouching his shoulders in defeat. He watched as the two Germans talked quickly, making out a few complete sentences and many more loose words. Jäger surely trusted this woman very much, because he told her how he had gotten there, what he had done to the airplane and that Ivushkin was a Russian POW Jäger didn’t want to see dead. That had made the woman look in shock at Ivushkin, and then jab a finger on Jäger’s chest:

“I don’t want Nazis and Communists in my house!” she hissed, and Ivushkin had to admit he was curious to know how Jäger would manipulate his sister into giving them shelter for… for as long as Jäger was planning to stay:

“How about your brother and his cargo?” he replied with a cheeky smile that faltered just a little when she narrowed her eyes and pointed Ivushkin:

“That’s a man you’re talking about! A human being!”

Ivushkin liked this woman. Living to see the day Jäger had someone (who wasn’t Ivushkin)  to stand up to him was worth almost everything:

“Kattie, please!!” And Ivushkin raised both eyebrows, watching in amused awe at how the self-confident, crazed, hateful Nazi officer dropped his façade and was left staring earnestly and almost desperately at his sister.

The woman pursed her lips, then rubbed her face and pointed the barn:

“You’ll stay there for the night. I don’t want my children to see their uncle dragging… a prisoner,” she said tightly, then looked at Ivushkin and studied him for a moment. “I’ll take you food and water.”

* * *

 

When Jäger’s sister let them in the house, the next day, there were only her and her husband, Otto – Ivushkin presumed Jäger’s nephews were in school.

Otto seemed very uncomfortable around Jäger, but didn’t oppose to them staying. Once the woman was sure her husband approved of their stay, she then guided them to the attic of the house:

“You can sleep there, it’s a guest room for when Otto’s family visits. But you’ll have to share the bathroom,” she told, climbing the narrow stairs ahead of them and opening the trapdoor that led into the attic. “I already cleaned up and there’s sheets on the beds.”

Jäger signalled Ivushkin to go first, and Ivushkin, still with his wrists restrained, climbed slowly the stairs to the attic.

The attic was large, but its only source of natural light was a small round window on the wall behind the trapdoor. There were two beds opposite to each other with a large carpet on the floor between them, two small cabinets next to each bed and, at the end of the attic, a small bathroom with a sink and mirror, a toilet and a bathtub.

Jäger emerged from the trapdoor, carrying his backpack in a shoulder. He smiled at his sister and seemed about to hug her again, but she raised a finger and he stilled:

“There is going to be rules,” she told, looking from Jäger to Ivushkin, who nodded. “Whatever conflict led you two to this moment, has no place under my roof. This said, Klaus, release this man immediately.”

Ivushkin could almost laugh, but though Jäger’s command was now undermined… it was still him who had relative control of the situation. Ivushkin figured he could play along, at least until he had a plan to escape. He stretched his arms towards Jäger, who grunted and cut the remaining rope with his knife. Ivushkin rubbed at his sore and bruised wrists, but how he was pleased to be free again!

“Next, no indoctrination,” the woman proceeded very seriously, looking at the two men with the attention of a bird of prey. Jäger sighed and looked down, whereas Ivushkin nodded solemnly as it seemed reasonable that the woman wouldn’t want her children involved in politics just yet. “And Klaus… your gun and knife.”

Jäger hesitated at that, but he handed over the holster with his pistol, his knife, and even the spare ammunition he had brought. After a second hesitation, he also gave his sister a dagger he was hiding at the bottom of his backpack, and only then did the woman seem pleased:

“Also, while you’re here, you’ll make yourself useful,” she stated, and Ivushkin nodded again, feeling it was only fair that they should work in return for her shelter and food. “And no fighting, or I’ll throw you out.”

Ivushkin and Jäger exchanged a look as a first, difficult obstacle was raised in their way: they had shared quarters in civil quietude before… but the tables had turned, and Jäger no longer had guards – and guns – to protect him. Ivushkin wasn’t sure he would resist the temptation of teaching the German a lesson if the opportunity presented itself. But since Jäger nodded, so did Ivushkin.

The woman seemed unimpressed, and turned her back to leave:

“There are clothes in the cabinets,” she informed and closed the trapdoor once she started going downstairs.

A moment of tense silence followed. Jäger and Ivushkin exchanged a look, then the German squared his shoulders:

“My sister, Katrine. We’re twins,” After this, silence settled between them, and it almost felt like they were back in the camp again and each ignored the other, despite being confined in the same quarters. Jäger tossed his backpack on the bed, Ivushkin sat at the edge of his; Jäger picked up clothes from the cabinet and personal hygiene items from the backpack, Ivushkin merely savoured the feeling of sitting on something soft; Jäger marched into the bathroom and threw a spare razor at Ivushkin’s head, Ivushkin merely flinched at the impact and turned slightly to see the German close the door after getting in. Ivushkin sighed, knowing Jäger would take forever to shave his face – the German was extremely cautious with his scars – and he took the chance to undress his prisoner uniform and lie down on the bed in just his underwear, unable to resist lying just for a moment in a proper bed, soft and clean.

He must have dozed off for a while, because when he opened his eyes again, the bathroom door was open and Jäger was nowhere to be seen. That was Ivushkin’s first moment of _real_ privacy in a long time – since the war began, actually. For a moment, he just lied sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling as his mind went numb for a moment, appreciating the peaceful silence: no shouting, no engines, no barking of dogs, no sound of shots nor of soldiers passing by. _No guard, no Jäger looking at him._ A smile grew on his face and he felt incredibly well-rested, and for the first time realised he had time for himself, to figure out what to do next. He was… safe, as ironic as it might seem. Slowly, he pushed himself up and picked up clothes from the cabinet, feeling suddenly excited about dressing something that wasn’t a prisoner uniform.

* * *

 

When Ivushkin went down, shaved and washed and wearing civilian clothes, he was feeling invigorated. He heard voices and went straight into the kitchen, momently forgotten about who he was with. He was surprised as he got in and found Jäger sitting on a chair with three children happily perched on his legs, two sitting on his left leg and one sitting on his right leg. The children were all blond like their father, but had the same eyes and features as their mother, and consequently, as Jäger. They could almost pass as their own children.

Katrine, peeling potatoes at the table, smiled at her children:

“This is Uncle Klaus’ friend!” she announced. Ivushkin almost laughed and, judging by how Jäger chewed on the inside of his cheek, the German also had a similar reaction. “You all are going to be good to him.”

The three children nodded, looking curiously at Ivushkin, who couldn’t help but smile at them:

“I'm Nikolai, but you can call me Kolya,” he said.

* * *

 

Weeks went by, and thanks to Katrine assigning Jäger and Ivushkin different chores at opposite sides of the farm, living was peaceful. Ivushkin spent most time indoors, helping Katrine in the kitchen and in cleaning. He liked it because it gave him an opportunity to practice German, and Katrine was much more likeable than her twin. Ivushkin learned that Katrine had moved to Switzerland when Hitler rose to power, because unlike her parents and brother she didn’t like his politics; she had studied to be a nurse and had met Otto in a hospital, and they had married and moved to that small village, where Otto still worked as a doctor. Ivushkin was surprised to know that, even though Katrine and Jäger differed much on their perception of the world, still Jäger had been there for her wedding and to take her to the altar, and had been there when her children were born - that made Ivushkin consider that Jäger wasn't  _completely_ despicable.

Ivushkin was particularly relieved that Katrine didn’t ask how he had ended up as a prisoner, as it was still a fresh wound for him and it would certainly upset her to know what her brother had been up to during the war. Though, by the way Katrine was somewhat reserved towards Jäger, she probably knew. Once more, Ivushkin was fascinated about observing Jäger’s behaviour, now that he was around his sister and nephews: the German still looked as enthusiastic as always, and his chaotic energy was unchanged; yet he was playful and affectionate in a way that seemed too natural to be pretence – he was even _too much_ , like he had so much to give he didn’t quite knew how to portion it. Ivushkin wondered that maybe Jäger was indeed friendly, and had meant his friendliness towards him.

Ivushkin and Jäger were alone only to sleep, but they strictly followed their unspoken deal of mutual ignorance.

* * *

 

One evening they were all gathered in the living room, but each busy with something: Katrine was sewing, Otto was reading, Jäger was playing with his two nephews and Ivushkin was being given a lesson on flowers by Jäger’s niece.

Suddenly, the music in the radio stopped and the emission changed to news. Ivushkin wasn’t paying attention, too focused trying to understand the girl’s – Anika – machine-gun speech on flowers, and he only realised it was something serious when Katrine told the children to leave the living room.

The emission announced the surrendering of Germany. Otto and Katrine looked extremely relieved and Ivushkin himself was smiling widely as he heard how the Soviet troops had fought in Berlin. He was filled by warmth and his heart swelled with pride to the point that he felt tears in the corner of his eyes. He instinctively looked at Jäger.

The German’s face was serious, his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on the floor. His whole body was tense and still as a statue. Ivushkin felt extremely pleased:

“Do you think Mother and Father are alright?” Katrine asked her brother softly, once the emission was over and the radio started broadcasting music again. “They never reply to my letters but… maybe I should write them again?”

Instead of answering, Jäger stood up, strode to the front door and left, slamming the door behind him. Otto and Katrine exchanged a look, but before any of them could do anything Ivushkin was already on his feet, following Jäger.

The sun was setting behind the mountains, casting long shadows on the village, like the bars from a cage. It was chilly, a stark contrast with the cosy interior of the house, but Ivushkin gave it little attention as he followed Jäger into the barn. His heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and discharged adrenaline, a feeling similar to destroying all the enemy tanks and winning the battle.

Inside the barn everything was dark, except for the narrow strip of warm orange light sneaking in by the door left ajar by Jäger. The barn was a big two-story wooden building: in the first floor were kept bags with grain and seeds and food for the animals, and in the ground floor there was a row of large loose box stalls on the left, the first containing a cow, the second and third containing hay, the forth a sturdy bay draught horse and the fifth a dapple-grey draught horse, but finer than the other horse. The night Ivushkin had spent in the stables, Jäger had told him the bay horse was Belgian and that the dapple-grey was a French Percheron. Ivushkin hadn't been interested in breeds, rather in petting the horses. The Belgian had allowed Ivushkin to touch its head and mane and ears. But Jäger had promptly ignored the sturdy horse and had walked straight to the more elegant one, hand already raised to touch it. He had almost gotten bitten, and then he had raised his hand threateningly, and the horse had pinned its hears back and tilted its head in an equally threatening manner – yet, after a small staring contest, both man and horse relaxed and the horse allowed Jäger to pet it. Ivushkin hadn’t approached the dapple-grey since. On the right wing of the barn there were horse tacks and harnesses, a wagon and plough, a bike and, at the end of the barn, a tractor.

Ivushkin found Jäger standing rigidly in front of the tractor, standing with his legs slightly apart and with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Ivushkin didn’t hesitate, nor tried to walk silently:

“You lost,” he stated, his voice sounding too booming and powerful in the silent barn. Jäger didn’t move, not even when Ivushkin finally stopped next to him. “ _Again._ ”

It was too dim, but Ivushkin could picture the scars on Jäger’s face twitching and bulging as the German clenched his jaw and chewed on his tongue:

“You knew you were going to lose,” Ivushkin proceeded as he no longer felt the need of bridling his opinion. “You knew. And you ran. _Again_ ,” Ivushkin could see it: could see himself holding Jäger above the water, could see Jäger letting go of his hand and falling. “You are a coward, Jäger.”

Ivushkin stumbled back, surprised, when Jäger’s fist collided with his face. His cheek throbbed and the inside was mercilessly smashed against teeth, filling Ivushkin’s mouth with blood. He spat, shocked, then looked up to see that Jäger had finally turned to face him, but remained still with balled fists rigidly next to his body. Ivushkin would no longer let the German abuse him, he would no longer stand the humiliation and would no longer be patient. An indomitable wave of hate made him launch forwards, but Jäger moved away and punched him again. Ivushkin spat blood once more, now from a split lip, and he attacked Jäger again, quicker, and though the German evaded the first blow, he was hit by the second.

Soon they were grappling on the cobble stone ground, grunting and snarling at each other and trying to gain the upper hand. They exchanged blows to their faces and ribs and stomachs, and eventually were rolling on the ground, both trying to strangle the other at the same time – and, for a moment, it looked like Jäger would successfully strangle Ivushkin, who started to kick uncoordinatedly and ended up hitting Jäger between the legs, causing him to immediately release his neck and curl in a ball – kicking in return, nonetheless, and successfully striking Ivushkin’s chin with a heel.

Their blows grew erratic, and finally Ivushkin and Jäger were lying sprawled on the cobble stones, across from each other, panting and bleeding and grumbling threats at each other. Ivushkin’s entire body hurt and the cool cobble stones against his throbbing cheek felt ridiculously good. His whole body was too hot, pasty with sweat and blood, and he could feel dust and hay on his raw knuckles. There was still orange light coming in by the door left ajar, though Ivushkin felt like he and Jäger were hitting each other for hours.

He realised it had been pointless. He turned his head slightly, to look at the German lying on his back with an arm across his face and his chest heaving. Ivushkin realised he pitied Jäger. He realised the German was a fool, and a coward, and that he had lost everything for believing the ideas of a lunatic; Ivushkin, on the other hand, still had his honour and knew he had fought for the right thing. He was a hero, no matter the false label of traitor. He was a hero and Jäger was nothing. Ivushkin’s mother would always love him, even if she never came to know what happened to him. But Jäger’s own twin sister despised him.

Ivushkin took in a deep breath, freezing as he felt a sharp pang of pain, and maybe if he hadn’t come to sneer at the cornered beast, he wouldn’t have been beaten that bad.

Suddenly, Jäger snorted and cackled:

“Kattie is going to kill us…” he stated, truly amused. Ivushkin, personally, saw nothing good in upsetting the woman:

“She will…” Ivushkin agreed. He watched how Jäger slowly scrambled to his feet, grunting in the process, and he too pushed himself up. Standing only made him feel sorer, and he and Jäger stared at each other for a moment. Then Jäger began to walk away, stiffly, pressing a hand against his ribcage:

“Come on, I don’t want my nephews to see us like this.”

Ivushkin could only agree with that, and he followed Jäger. They walked to the back of the house to get in by the small back door in the kitchen, so that they would avoid the family gathered in the living room.

Unfortunately, Katrine was filling the dishes in the kitchen when they sneaked in, and she stared at the two men in horror, her blue eyes wide and her mouth gaping ungraciously. Ivushkin felt no longer a hero, but a very childish man. He exchanged a guilty look with Jäger, who smiled at his sister, like he could fix the situation easily. Jäger’s lips were split and his teeth were bloodstained – all his face was, and bruised and scratched, like he had just arrived from battle. His smile died, however, when Katrine’s look changed from shocked to a toxic mixture of disgust and disappointment:

“Klaus, what happened?” she hissed. Her grip tightened on the dish she was holding, and she put it down on the table with a loud thud, almost spilling its contents. Jäger clenched his jaw and looked down. “Leave it... out of my sight! And don’t you even think about going into the living room!”

Ivushkin watched as Jäger obediently turned around and left, heading to the stairs. Ivushkin was about to follow, then he frowned as he realised Katrine hadn’t yelled at _him_. He stood behind, waiting, but Katrine merely sighed and continued to serve the dishes:

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, stopping what she was doing to look up at Ivushkin. His brow furrowed deeper in confusion. “For my brother. For whatever he did,” Her voice quivered and she looked down. “I swear he wasn’t like that, Nikolai… He was a good, kind boy. Before the Nazis. He was so loving…”

Ivushkin was speechless for a moment. He felt guilty, not for having exchanged blows with Jäger, but for making Katrine feel like she should apologise to him. He shook his head:

“I provoked him,” he confessed, and the woman seemed surprised. “He wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t…” He paused and pressed his lips in a tight line before proceeding. “One of these days I’ll tell you how I… got stuck with him,” Ivushkin then smiled, honestly. “I’m sure he still loves you and your children very much.”

Katrine smiled shortly at that, and Ivushkin left. Once he had reached the stairs at the end of the corridor, he heard Katrine call for her daughter to help her take the dishes to the table.

When Ivushkin climbed the stairs to the attic and closed the trapdoor after himself, he was so sore he would rather lie down and sleep the pain off for a while before washing. Jäger’s clothes and boots were discarded next to his bed, and the bathroom door was open while the German washed the blood away from his face and hands in the sink. The lights were on and Ivushkin could see Jäger’s torso and face were bruised, and that his knuckles were raw as Ivushkin’s. When the German left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, wearing only his underwear, Ivushkin could see a nasty bruise growing under Jäger’s left eye and his lower lip getting swollen.

Without a word, Jäger turned his back at Ivushkin and started to dress his pyjamas. In turn, Ivushkin undressed his sweater and pants, kicked off his boots and walked to the bathroom. He looked as bad as Jäger, but instead of having a bruise under his eye there was a massive purple spot growing on his cheek. He still looked much better than when he had been first captured, and lost no more time thinking about the fight. He opened the water tap and began to wash himself.

When there was no more dried blood on his skin and his wounds were clean of dust and hay, he dried himself carefully not to stain the towel and went back into the bedroom, dressed his pyjama and crawled under the blankets. Jäger was a bundle under the blankets in his bed, and Ivushkin too curled up in discomfort.

Time passed by, and Ivushkin couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was blissfully blank, considering he had won the war, but he still couldn’t fall asleep. He was tempted to call Jäger, only to see if the German had managed to fall asleep, but he remained still. Suddenly, he heard the trapdoor opening:

“Boys?” Katrine called. Ivushkin raised his head from the pillow to look at her, standing with a tray with two bowls of soup and a small first-aid box. Jäger, however, was unmoving.

She walked up to Ivushkin first and handed him a bowl, that Ivushkin accepted with gratitude. The soup was liquid enough and he could drink it without having to open his mouth that much and pull at his split lip, and he tilted his head slightly to the side, in an attempt at making the soup avoid the injured inside of his cheek. Ivushkin kept his eyes on his meal, but he still caught the twins by his peripheral vision: Katrine sat at the edge of Jäger’s bed and leaned on the bundle that was her brother, speaking to him lowly; whatever she said made one of Jäger’s arms emerge from under the blankets and pull her close in a strange-angled hug.

Ivushkin wondered if a nurse married to a doctor would be able to ever fix Jäger, or if he was too broken and there was nothing they could do.

* * *

 

They didn’t talk about the fight and when Jäger’s nephews saw them the next day, bruised and swollen, Ivushkin followed Jäger’s lead on how they had fallen down the stairs.

They didn’t talk at all, and Jäger’s chaotic energy seemed to have diminished a little.

A few weeks after the incident, Ivushkin was watering the plants on the front deck. It was a calm morning, and he noticed that Otto, with no emergency to attend to, had decided to take the tractor out and work in the fields. Yet, as he drove out of the barn, a large cloud of smoke arose from the front of the tractor and it went still. Ivushkin tilted his head, curious, hurried to finish the task at hand then jogged towards the tractor. He noticed Jäger peeking out of the barn, looking curiously at how Otto was still trying to get the tractor to start, but with no success.

Ivushkin circled the tractor, waiting for the smoke to disappear. Otto seemed to understand it was useless to try to start the tractor and he got off it, looking worriedly at Ivushkin:

“Can you fix it?” he asked. Ivushkin didn’t answer right away, merely kneeled on the ground to take a better look at the several fuming pistons and cables. It was different from a tank, but still Ivushkin felt it couldn’t be _that_ different. He was aware of someone stopping and kneeling next to him as well, and he was surprised to see Jäger had come to investigate too. They inspected the tractor silently, until Jäger grunted and pointed a broken cable, almost hidden by a piston.

For a whole week, they were entertained with the tractor. There was no chatting, merely removing and cleaning and fixing and putting back together pieces, like they were a well-oiled mechanism themselves. Ivushkin liked it. It remembered him of quiet evenings spent at Jäger’s desk, when he had almost forgotten what was going on. Katrine would take them juice and pastries, surprised and clearly pleased at how well they were working together. They still didn’t talk every time they went to sleep, but Ivushkin felt like the tension from the fight was gone.

By the end of the week, they fixed the tractor. Katrine was pleased she didn’t have to use the Belgian horse to plough the field, and to reward Ivushkin and Jäger for their work, she made some special dishes for dinner. That night there was an aura of festivity at the table, with everyone delighted with Katrine’s cooking and Katrine beaming pride for showing her skill. Ivushkin liked all that happiness very much, as it made him feel like he was a long-term family friend and not a foreigner literally fallen from the sky. Ivushkin had never seen Jäger smile like that. Truly smile, instead of feral and maniac grins. The blue of his eyes seemed brighter, his gaze even more intense, the scars on his face lost their fealty – watching Jäger laugh and hug and kiss his nephews so fondly, Ivushkin believed Katrine’s word about how Jäger had been a different man before everything began.

Yet Ivushkin doubted Jäger would ever truly find his way back.

* * *

 

Ivushkin grew curious about the amount of time Jäger spent outdoors. He knew Katrine didn’t let him drive the tractor nor drive the wagon to the village for shopping in the market, and Jäger was suspiciously pale and clean for someone who spent the entire day in the vegetable and fruit gardens. So, one morning, Ivushkin decided to investigate and went to the barn. He found it empty of animals and Jäger was nowhere to be seen. Ivushkin then decided to check the enclosed pastures behind the barn, near the vegetable garden and the fruit trees. The cow and the Belgian horse were grazing on the bigger pasture, while Jäger was leading the big dapple-grey Percheron horse in a wide circle, in the smaller pasture. Katrine had once commented with Ivushkin that she planned to sell that horse because it was too temperamental, it kicked when harnessed to the wagon and it wasn’t trained to be ridden: Ivushkin’s first thought was that Jäger was training the horse to be easier to sell, and he decided to approach the fence and lean against it with his arms crossed over the harsh wood, watching.

The dapple-grey didn’t seem annoyed by the saddle on its back, nor by the bridle on its head, nor by being led in circles by a long rope. But when Jäger collected the rope, removed it from the bridle and climbed to the saddle, Ivushkin, who never in his entire life had dealt with horses, knew the dapple-grey wasn’t pleased with the weight on its back. Fascinated to know the outcome of the fight and waiting for Jäger to fall off ungraciously, Ivushkin stood by the fence, watching how Jäger held on despite the horse’s prancing and kicking.

The horse’s rebellion was unremarkably short, though. Ivushkin confessed to himself he was disappointed that the big dapple-grey seemed to deem Jäger unremovable and became cooperative, walking and trotting and cantering on command. Ivushkin doubted riding the Percheron was comfortable, given its massive size, but Jäger didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The horse, though monstrous, had a certain kind of beauty as it kept its neck arched and stepped confidently:

“He’s named Schimmel,” Jäger informed as he cantered past Ivushkin. He sounded proud, like the Percheron was something as remarkable as… a tank. “He’s ten years old.”

* * *

 

Ivushkin liked to observe Jäger interact with his nephews. He knew the older boy – Karl, ten years old - was Jäger’s favourite because he had been born before the war and Jäger had been able to visit more often; he knew Jäger was constantly trying to convince Katrine to send Karl to a military school, and this confused Ivushkin a lot, because if Jäger loved his nephew so much, he shouldn’t try to get rid of him like that; Jäger’s second favourite was the girl, Anika, the younger at the age of six, but Jäger clearly didn’t know how to show his love and so played with her like she as a boy (Ivushkin was certain that was why the girl liked to talk to him about flowers, as Ivushkin had the patience to just sit there and listen); and, though Ivushkin knew Jäger also loved the middle nephew – Johan, age eight – he didn’t play as much with him as he did with Karl and Anika.

That evening, Ivushkin was in the living room reading a poetry book to practice his reading skills, when he heard a great commotion outside on the deck. The next moment Jäger entered the house laughing, chased by his three nephews. Ivushkin’s attention was momently drawn away from the book, and he watched as Jäger dramatically threw himself on the ground, pretending that Anika had successfully captured him, and he was quickly buried under three happy children that sat on his back and legs. Katrine came from the kitchen, drying a dish to a towel and frowning, but her expression softened when she saw her brother lying on the floor. Ivushkin expected Jäger to request her help, or simply save himself by his own, but the German looked at him, clearly amused, and flailed his arms like he was falling into a hole in the ground and reaching out for support:

“Ivushkin, help me!” he cried in no need for help, but that only made his nephews laugh. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes, but refrained from stating that, this time, he would rather sit back and watch Jäger die. That would be an awful thing to say in front of Katrine and the children, and would bring back unsettled matters that so far had been successfully kept at bay. “Ivushkin, you’re a lousy ally!”

The thought of them being allies was so ridiculous – and so ironic that Jäger said that, considering what happened during the war -  that Ivushkin laughed full-heartedly. Whether Jäger realised the stupidity of what he said, or not, Ivushkin didn’t know. But Katrine was still watching, and Ivushkin didn’t want to trouble her with their unresolved business. Leaving the book aside, Ivushkin stood up from the armchair, walked to where Jäger was lying and picked up Anika, who squealed in delight:

“I’m still outnumbered!” Jäger complained, flailing his legs now that Anika was no longer sitting on them:

“I’ve got the hardest opponent!” Ivushkin replied, making Anika squeal in delight at the compliment.

Later, when they were both getting ready to sleep, dressing their pyjamas with their backs facing each other, Ivushkin wondered if it was worth talking about their ‘alliance’. He figured the worst that could happen was another fight and Katrine being angry at them:

“So, lousy ally,” Ivushkin stated, folding the clothes he wore during the day and piling them at the feet of the bed:

“Would you rather be a lousy comrade?” Jäger asked. There was a certain caution in his voice. Ivushkin opened the bed:

“Don’t you run, Jäger,” he grunted as he crawled under the blankets and lied on his side, facing the wall. He heard Jäger’s bed creak as he too lied down:

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you,” the German stated. He still sounded cautious, but the characteristic sly tone of his voice that he used when he was planning something was back. “So, you can only be lousy.”

Ivushkin found none of that enlightening. But again, he shouldn’t expect too much help from the German. He looked over his shoulder, yet Jäger also slept facing the wall. Ivushkin turned back to his original position, thoughtful. Ivushkin believed one could only state with certainty that they knew someone when they had seen that person at their worst. According to that, then Ivushkin knew Jäger all too well.

Still, he wondered.

* * *

 

They were tidying up the attic when Karl emerged from the trapdoor:

“Uncle Klaus, do you have any medals from the war?” the boy chirped. Jäger, sweeping the floor under his bed, immediately stopped what he was doing and nodded. “Can I see them?”

Ivushkin watched how Jäger went from enthusiastic to careful, and resumed the task at hand:

“We need your mother’s permission, boy.”

Shortly after Karl was back, visibly pleased and followed close by Katrine. Ivushkin snorted, admiring the lengths the woman went to protect her children from her brother’s influence. Ivushkin had finished cleaning up his half of the attic, and he was sitting on the bed to read a bit more in the poetry book. He couldn’t resist, however, to watch as how Jäger so ceremoniously fetched his backpack from his cabinet, placed it on his bed in front of his nephew and sister and began to remove and enumerate the items inside: his officer cap, his neatly folded SS uniform, his camouflage jacket, his SS ring, the canister with the gas mask, his binoculars, his map and compass, his wallet, some records with military marches, and then his four medals, one by one, reverently explaining what which of them meant. Ivushkin noticed how Katrine clenched her jaw, her eyes jumping from the medals to the grinning skull on Jäger’s officer cap, and he wondered if Katrine wanted to feel proud about her brother having won all those medals, but being unable to given what he did to deserve them. He felt sorry for her, and for Jäger at some extent.

Ivushkin was surprised Jäger refrained from telling how he won those medals. Katrine seemed pleased by it:

“And how did you get those scars, Uncle Klaus?” Karl eventually asked. Ivushkin watched with interest how Jäger and Katrine exchanged a look, then Jäger smiled and shrugged, dismissive:

“A battle. Which I won,” he added proudly. That made Ivushkin snort, and Karl looked at him curiously:

“Do you have medals too, Kolya?” the boy asked, swinging his legs back and forth at the edge of the bed. Ivushkin smiled a little and shook his head no. “Why not?”

“I didn’t do anything remarkable to deserve a medal,” he explained briefly, but exchanged a look with Jäger, who stared at him intensely.

Jäger could have been his medal.

Jäger, who then looked away and opened his wallet to show his nephew some photos. Ivushkin figured it should be portraits of Jäger, in all his uniformed glory, but then Karl asked who was the woman in one of the photos:

“I didn’t know you carried this with you,” Katrine said with fondness. She looked at Ivushkin, smiled, and signalled him to join them to see the photos. Ivushkin obliged, and he went to stand next to Katrine and Karl and tilted his head a little to take a look at the photos: there were indeed photos of Jäger, alone or posing with a tank or with comrades, and then there was the photo that had intrigued Karl so much:

“This was the day I married!” Katrine explained happily, showing Ivushkin a photo of her, in her wedding dress and a fancy hairdo, smiling and linking arms with her brother, smiling as well and very tactlessly clad in a black SS uniform. Considering Karl’s age, Ivushkin assumed the photo had been taken ten years ago – and the twins did look much younger… and happier. Jäger looked just a young boy in that photo, harmless and innocent.

“Do you have photos, too?” Karl asked curiously. Ivushkin forced a smile and shook his head no:

“I lost my wallet,” he told. It had been confiscated by the Nazis when he was captured. He looked at Jäger, who was staring down at his medals in a display of pure innocence.

Later, during dinner, Karl was still very excited about Jäger’s medals. Anika, sitting next to Ivushkin, explained to him that the teacher had assigned him a two-page long composition to deliver the next week:

“Mama, can I write about Uncle Klaus?” Karl eventually asked, and Ivushkin almost choked on the food as he tried to stop himself from laughing at how self-important Jäger looked in that moment. It only got better the moment Katrine looked sternly at her son and said ‘no’ – Jäger’s smile dropped and he suddenly looked much smaller:

“Write about your father, instead,” Katrine suggested, though it was clearly a command. Otto nodded, pleased, but his smile died as Karl scrunched up his face:

“But Father didn’t go to war and didn’t win medals…” the boy argued. Ivushkin watched with interest at how Jäger frowned slightly, seemingly understanding where the conversation was heading to:

“Your father is a doctor, that’s important,” he said, trying to appease things. Karl merely shrugged:

“But you were a colonel! None of the other boys has an uncle who went to war and commanded tanks!”

“Your father saves lives,” Katrine said dryly. “Unlike your uncle.”

“How about…” Ivushkin intervened, sounding as much nonchalant as possible and pretending to be more interested in the food in his plate than in the adults’ faces around him. “… writing about your mother? She’s almost like a general, and a general is superior to a colonel,” Ivushkin then looked at Karl and winked at him. “Besides, your uncle is afraid of her…”

Ivushkin noticed Jäger opening his mouth to protest, but then the German seemingly thought things through and didn’t say a word. When Karl looked at him curiously, Jäger merely nodded:

“Being shot is nothing compared to upsetting your mother,” he said solemnly, and Karl seemed convinced that writing about his mother would be even more interesting than writing about his uncle. Peace was restored at the table.

* * *

 

Ivushkin woke up in the middle of the night for no reason. He tried to go back to sleep, yet before closing his eyes again he glanced over his shoulder and noticed Jäger’s bed was empty and the trapdoor was open.

Ivushkin found the German in the kitchen, smoking and chewing at his pipe absently and drumming erratically with a finger on a half-empty bottle of beer. There was already one empty bottle on the table. The light was off, but Jäger had opened the curtains to let the moonlight in. In his pyjamas, barefooted and with messy hair, Jäger truly looked like the epitome of defeat:

“Katrine wouldn’t like to see you like that,” Ivushkin said from the doorway, startling Jäger. Yet the German merely shrugged, took another sip from his beer and continued to chew at his pipe:

“Go to sleep, Ivushkin,” he grunted. Ivushkin wanted to, yet he walked into the kitchen, sat at the table across Jäger and crossed his arms, looking attentively at the German. They had a lot of unfinished business:

“I don’t get it,” he said. Jäger stared blankly at him. “You’re with your family. Thanks to you, I won’t see my mother again any time soon. What can possibly bother you so much?” Jäger didn’t answer, merely chewed at his pipe. Ivushkin realised he found it extremely irritating. Then, Jäger took another sip from his beer:

“Have you ever felt like you belonged somewhere, but now you don’t?” Jäger asked thoughtfully. Ivushkin was momently taken aback by the question, then frowned:

“You’re pathetic, wallowing in self-pity like that…” Ivushkin shook his head. “You don’t belong because you don’t want to,” Jäger took another, last sip at his beer, then frowned at the empty bottle, left it on the table and promptly reached out for another, on the floor next to his chair:

“You could have killed me,” the German said, in the same thoughtful manner. “Would’ve given you a medal, maybe.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing I regret more deeply…” Ivushkin replied, but the resentment in his voice was somewhat forceful. Jäger grinned, looking at Ivushkin through half-lidded eyes. He looked both miserable and extremely dangerous:

“You’re too good of a man,” he said, but Ivushkin couldn’t tell if Jäger was being sarcastic or honest. “But you did kill.”

“I fought for my homeland and my people,” But that wasn’t worth arguing while Jäger was drunk. Was Jäger drunk at all? Maybe it wasn’t worth arguing ever again. Ivushkin spent a quiet moment staring at the German, then shook his head again. “You’re such a coward, Jäger…”

“You think so?” Jäger sounded offended. Hurt, even. Ivushkin frowned. “The moment I saw your portrait in your file, I recognised you. And did I go to kill you for the trouble you caused me?” Jäger turned his face at Ivushkin and tapped his scars with a finger. Ivushkin understood he had scarred Jäger for life, more than just in his skin. “I kept you alive because I thought you worthy. I praised you in front of my comrades and superior officers,” Jäger chewed insistently at his pipe. Ivushkin wondered when he had caught that habit. “I still kept you alive after you sabotaged my training, when everyone told me you should be executed. I deserted to bring you to safety.”

Ivushkin acknowledged there was truth in Jäger’s words, but Ivushkin knew the German wasn’t as noble as he thought himself:

“You thought me so worthy you'd have me killed by being a target. You called me 'colleague' and then laid mines around the field. You’d rather have died than being captured. And now you’re here…” Ivushkin made a gesture comprising the smoke-filled kitchen and the empty bottles. “… hiding. If this isn't cowardice, then-”

“I’m not hiding!” Jäger growled, the pipe firmly secured between his teeth. “Go to sleep, Ivushkin! You’re talking gibberish!”

Ivushkin shook his head, but stood up and walked out of the kitchen. It wasn’t up to him to look after Jäger – and it shouldn’t be up to Katrine, either. He silently made his way towards the attic, climbed the stairs, crawled back to bed and fell asleep again, but not before thinking briefly about how Jäger had seemed to genuinely praise his skills, the night he had called Ivushkin to talk about the training.

* * *

 

When Ivushkin woke up the next morning, he was surprised to find his wallet next to him, on the pillow. He pushed himself to a sitting position and, too surprised to stretch and yawn and overall fully wake up, Ivushkin picked up his wallet and opened it. He was even more surprised to find all of its contents: his documents, some roubles and a few kopeks. He turned his head to look at Jäger… but the bed was done and empty.

Ivushkin’s main source of bitterness for having been brought to Switzerland was that he had no documents, so he wasn’t even… a legal citizen. He was a free man, but still imprisoned because only Jäger could testify his identity. But, since Ivushkin had his documents again, and even a few roubles (that he doubted would be a significant value in Swiss money, but it was still better than nothing) he realised he no longer needed to remain there, with Jäger.

Which meant Jäger had been extremely drunk the previous night to return his things… or he was up to something. It must have taken premeditation to find and bring Ivushkin’s documents, too.

When Ivushkin walked in the kitchen, the windows were open but there was still a lingering smell of tobacco. The bottles were nowhere to be seen, but Katrine looked very serious as she prepared her children’s snacks for school. Ivushkin greeted her and began to make his own breakfast:

“Where’s Jäger?” he eventually asked. Katrine called for Anika, who came running from the living room to pick up the paper bags with sandwiches and then ran off again to deliver the snacks to her brothers:

“I don’t know. Schimmel is missing too, so my guess is that my brother went off for a morning ride,” Katrine’s voice was tight. “I told him not to go to the village. I don’t need the entire village talking about how my Nazi brother is living here, now.”

“What concerns you the most: your Nazi brother or the Soviet… guest…?” Nikolai asked without malice and smiled a little, hoping he could cheer up the woman. Katrine merely sighed:

“Both, actually…” She then smiled apologetically. “You’re a good man, Nikolai.”

Ivushkin gave her words a thought. Otto came in the kitchen to kiss his wife good-bye, as he was leaving for an appointment in a neighbouring village. Next came the children, who were leaving to school. Ivushkin figured he could lift the breakfast table, then sit down to eat his own breakfast while Katrine washed the dishes.

“I almost killed Jäger,” Ivushkin began as he started to eat. He was sitting at the table, facing the door, and Katrine was by the sink, with her back turned at him. Neither looked at the other. “I could have captured him, but he… he escaped. He should have died doing that, but he didn’t, the stubborn… And I was captured by his soldiers again,” By the corner of his eye, Ivushkin noticed Katrine had stopped washing the dishes:

“And… what if he hadn’t escaped?” she asked slowly, and that made Ivushkin smile bitterly:

“He would have been sent to a POW camp, and his personal belongings would be confiscated, and he would be beaten and starve and either die of abuse, or malnutrition, or cold. You would never hear from him again,” There was a pause, and then Katrine asked:

“Is that what happened to you?”

Ivushkin hesitated, pushing around the remaining scrambled eggs in his dish. He felt like his time in imprisonment was a very private part of his life, one he didn’t want to share in detail. But when it came to his last year as a prisoner, then it was between him and Jäger:

“Jäger returned my wallet, last night. I’ve got my documents and some money back,” Ivushkin replied instead:

“Otto doesn’t have any appointments next week, I’m sure he won’t mind going with you to the bank, in the city. Maybe they’ll exchange your money for Swiss francs,” Katrine turned around to face him and forced a smile. Ivushkin could tell she was upset, but he didn’t know if it was about what _he_ did, or about what _Jäger_ did. “I should have asked earlier… is there someone you want to write to, Nikolai?”

Ivushkin bit his lower lip, thoughtful. Since his arrival to the farm, he had already thought about writing to his mother, to let her know he was alive. He knew, however, that _someone_ – the NKVD, perhaps? – would read his letter and would notice it had been sent from abroad. Ivushkin didn’t know what were the consequences for that, but he knew, for sure, that no matter what he wrote he would still be labelled as ‘traitor’. Maybe, by that time, all of the Russian tankists knew the tale of Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ivushkin, the one who had been captured right after his first battle and had worked for the Nazis.

Ivushkin pursed his lips and shook his head no, slowly:

“It’s… it’s better if I don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll manage.”

* * *

 

Ivushkin was checking the fruit trees for good fruit to pick up when he heard the clatter of ironclad hooves on cobblestone. Since Otto had taken the bike and Katrine had gone to the village on foot, it could only mean Jäger was back with the Percheron horse. Ivushkin glanced over his shoulder, to look towards the barn, and saw the gigantic dapple-grey horse canter into the barn with Jäger seemingly comfortably perched atop of it.

For the rest of the day, Ivushkin and Jäger avoided each other and were quiet at dinner.

Only when they were getting ready to sleep, with their backs turned at each other while dressing their pyjamas, did Ivushkin speak:

“Thank you for returning my documents,” He glanced over his shoulder briefly and caught sight of Jäger’s shoulders and back before they disappeared under the pyjama shirt. The German had seemed… more built, in his uniform. Ivushkin looked away again with a frown:

“You can leave, if you want,” Jäger said nonchalantly. _Almost_ nonchalantly.

And it occurred to Ivushkin that Jäger, despite being with his family, felt alone. What had he said the night before, about not belonging somewhere he had belonged to? But they weren’t friends. They couldn’t. Not with Jäger clinging to every bit of authority he had held in the past – that only made Ivushkin despise him for what he had been:

“I might,” Ivushkin replied. “I’m not a prisoner anymore.”

Jäger said nothing. Ivushkin heard him lie down and pull the blankets over himself.

* * *

 

Ivushkin was peeling potatoes while Katrine was filling a pan with water in the sink when a gigantic horse head slipped in through the open window, making her scream in surprise while dropping the pan and stumbling backwards. Jäger’s laughter followed, delighted, and the horse head was pulled back. In its’ turn, Jäger peeked at the window, bent down the huge horse:

“Stupid…” Katrine grunted, pressing her hand over her racing heart. Ivushkin smiled discreetly and continued to peel potatoes:

“Karl said none of them can ride on horseback,” Jäger stated, visibly amused with the entire situation:

“Schimmel is not to be ridden…” Katrine replied dryly. “It’s not even good to pull the wagon. I’m trying to find someone to buy it.”

Ivushkin noticed how Jäger’s face went serious, and he presumed Jäger was fond of that horse. But then Jäger shrugged:

“Try no more, I’ll buy him!” Jäger announced. “I just need to go to the bank in Zürich.”

“I thought that, since German blood belongs in the same Reich, so did German money…” Katrine remarked, frowning in suspicion. Ivushkin truly liked her:

“It’s never a good idea to store your money in a country that is being invaded in both fronts,” Ivushkin had never heard Jäger use such an aggressive tone with his sister. He put down the knife and the half-peeled potato, watching as Jäger sat straight on the saddle and set the horse to trot away:

“You shouldn’t mention the war to him,” Ivushkin advised softly. Katrine nodded, looking down. “He’s not much of a graceful loser.”

Katrine nodded again, but smiled.

* * *

 

Instead of going to the city with Otto, Ivushkin ended up going with Jäger. Ivushkin assumed Jäger was on a mission to show his sister that the Percheron horse was perfectly behaved and harmless enough to carry his nephews, and to better prove his point he had harnessed the Percheron to the wagon and, when Otto and Ivushkin arrived to the barn to harness the Belgian horse instead, Ivushkin had realised he didn’t really have a choice there.

Surprisingly, the ride across the valley was being smooth. Ivushkin didn’t know what kind of pact Jäger and that horse had, but it worked: the horse was trotting calmly on the road, without kicking the wagon and galloping away, and Jäger seemed to know what he was doing. Ivushkin seized the opportunity to admire the landscape. It was only them in the small, quiet road, and the horse’s hooves on the asphalt echoed through the valley. The sun was warm as Summer had just begun.

* * *

 

The day was so beautiful outside that Ivushkin felt an urge of going out for a walk in the woods. He figured he could also collect mushrooms, so he armed himself with a basket. Katrine had left to go to the bakery and maybe she would like to have a treat to eat once she came back.

Though Ivushkin didn’t invite Jäger, the German materialised beside him as Ivushkin was crossing the farm gate. The German was wearing his riding boots, breeches and undershirt, so Ivushkin supposed he had been around the horses.

In silence, they made their way to the woods. The same woods they had crossed, months ago, when Jäger had brought them from Germany – Ivushkin realised it all seemed… distant, numbed. They hadn’t talked about anything of the sort since Ivushkin had his roubles exchanged for francs, and he didn’t know if he wanted to change that.

He noticed Jäger stopping by a bush off the path, only to return with a handful of wild berries. The German seemed very pleased with himself and offered the berries in his palm to Ivushkin, who picked up a few to eat. They proceeded in silence, until Ivushkin spotted some suitable mushrooms near a tree and headed there. Jäger followed, and Ivushkin explained him briefly how to tell apart those specific mushrooms.

Soon enough, they were slowly going in opposite directions, very focused on their quest for mushrooms. Ivushkin wandered more and more into the woods, where the trees grew closely together, the bushes were thicker and countless leaves carpeted the ground.

He stepped over a particular amount of leaves, and two iron jaws immediately closed in around his ankle with an ominous metallic snap, digging into his flesh and tearing skin, muscle and tendons. Ivushkin screamed and fell, agonized, and for a moment he was unable to do anything other than scream and whimper and stand still on the ground. He then began to curse and swear, and he no longer cared about mushrooms as he slowly changed to a sitting position and looked at his captured foot. A wave of nausea twisted his stomach, and he chastised himself for being so weak after having to clean up dead bodies from inside a tank. With a whimper, he tried to bend over his injured ankle and pry the hunting trap open, but the movement tugged at his injury and he screamed and fell on his back again. His face was drenched in sweat.

He heard Jäger running before he saw him emerging from the trees. In the blink of an eye Jäger was already there with Ivushkin, grunting in effort as he pulled the iron jaws open. Ivushkin could only scream and hiss in pain as the sharp teeth were pulled off his flesh, but when his ankle was finally free, it seemed to him the pain was even more overwhelming. He had no idea of how he would stand up and walk back to the farm.

Ivushkin realised, however, he didn’t need to stand up: Jäger lifted him, lied him on his shoulder and ran off in the same way one would carry a wounded comrade away from the battlefield.

In pain and in an uncomfortable position, Ivushkin felt like the run back to the farm took an eternity. But finally, Jäger dropped him on the armchair where Ivushkin usually sat. Ivushkin groaned and curled up, grimacing, barely noticing Jäger standing there looking at him before disappearing from the living room and returning shortly after with a towel and a basin with water:

“The office is locked, I’m sure that’s where Otto keeps the morphine,” Jäger muttered as he pulled off Ivushkin’s boot and sock. “But I can break down the door and-“ Ivushkin winced and clenched his jaw:

“You are _not_ going to give me morphine!” he exclaimed through gritted teeth. The German looked at him, confused, then he narrowed his eyes:

“Would you rather be in pain until Kattie arrives to treat you?” Jäger sounded baffled, like Ivushkin was out of his mind. Ivushkin remembered the damage Jäger had suffered from his fall into the water, and wondered if Jäger had recused morphine back then and was now trying to share his wisdom with Ivushkin.

Ivushkin didn’t want to be in pain, he merely didn’t trust Jäger to come near him with morphine. He appreciated that Jäger had so quickly aided him, and had ran back to the farm carrying him – Jäger’s face was still flushed and sweaty and he was still breathing quickly from the run – but he didn’t feel comfortable about having Jäger around him while he couldn’t… properly defend himself. Ivushkin hadn’t felt this vulnerable since he had realised Jäger no longer had command over his life, now that they were in Switzerland.

Ivushkin winced and whimpered again when Jäger pressed the soaked towel on his injured ankle to clean the wounds. He felt vulnerable, uncomfortable, but Jäger was being cautious and seemed… genuinely concerned. Ivushkin supposed the German was worried Katrine would think he had purposefully pushed Ivushkin into a hunting trap.

Once Jäger finished cleaning the wound, he left the living room again, probably looking for bandages or gauze. Ivushkin allowed himself to shut his eyes for a moment, swallowing down a whimper. As long as there was silence, Ivushkin remained with his eyes closed, but he opened them the moment he heard Jäger striding into the living room again. The German carried another towel and seemed frustrated – by the looks of it, he hadn’t found anything more appropriate to dress the wound. Ivushkin winced again and bit his tongue while Jäger wrapped the towel around his injured ankle, though the German was still surprisingly careful.

Then Jäger chuckled, and he looked at Ivushkin, seemingly truly amused:

“What a luck that I went with you, don’t you think?”

Ivushkin realised he couldn’t not smile at that, and nodded. He didn’t thank, however, but Jäger didn’t seem to want to hear it either. The German merely kept pacing around the living room, and for a long time they were silent.

Ivushkin was in great pain and the discomfort was becoming unbearable. He began to shift on the armchair, and eventually Jäger stopped his wandering around the living room and looked at him with an uncharacteristically serious face:

“Do you want to lie down?” he asked, but Ivushkin merely shook his head: he feared that, if he moved too much, he would jolt his injured ankle and make it hurt even more – besides, he would need Jäger’s help to move, and Ivushkin would avoid it as much as possible.

No matter how earnest the German looked.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Ivushkin turned his head to see Katrine walk in and freeze to the spot, staring with wide eyes at Ivushkin, sitting at an awkward angle on the armchair and with an ankle wrapped in a towel. Ivushkin noticed how she looked accusingly at Jäger, and hurried to explain her what had happened.

It wouldn’t be fair if she blamed Jäger, after all.

* * *

 

Ivushkin’s tendon was damaged, but not completely. Otto said it would take time, but he would recover.

Ivushkin had also been given a strong dose of morphine because of the pain, and he had hazy memories of being hoisted up by Jäger and carried to the attic to be left on his bed. He was slowly emerging from that haze, but the pain, too, was increasing again, and Ivushkin supposed he had been semi-conscious for a while.

When he was fully awaken and looked around the attic, he found no sign of Jäger. He felt relieved, but also strangely forsaken. Then Ivushkin sneered at himself, because he had endured worst. He was thirsty, so all he had to do was to push himself up and hop in one leg to the bathroom to drink water from the tap.

And Ivushkin would have successfully stood on one leg, if only Jäger hadn’t emerged from the trapdoor with Ivushkin’s dinner – and, seeing the German approaching with food and drink, had Ivushkin remaining sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting curiously despite knowing that was all meant for him.

Jäger handed him the tray, then walked back to the trapdoor and began to climb down:

“I can sleep downstairs, on a couch… it’s more practical,” Ivushkin reasoned, staring down at his soup but still catching Jäger in his peripheral vision. He saw how the German stilled and tilted his head:

“You’re more comfortable there,” he said. That had Ivushkin rolling his eyes:

“I’m stuck here…” he grunted. He didn’t want to admit it aloud, especially not to Jäger. Ivushkin was a prisoner once more, because he couldn’t leave the attic on his own – at least, not until he could move without making his injured ankle hurt:

“I’ll look after you, again!” Jäger chirped way too cheerfully for Ivushkin’s liking. ‘Again’? Since when had Jäger looked after him? Still, Ivushkin didn’t say anything and resumed to eat.

Later, when he was lying under a blanket with his injured ankle propped up on a pillow, Ivushkin chastised himself for having dismissed Otto’s attempt at giving him more morphine before going to sleep – but how could he have accepted it, when Jäger had been looking at him so intensely? Ivushkin had felt studied, judged, measured, and had decided he was strong and capable enough to spend the night without more morphine. It was enough that the wounds had been properly tended to and dressed.

Ivushkin allowed himself to wince as he tried to find a more comfortable position… and failed. He sighed and kept shifting and turning slightly and twisting himself, accidentally jolting his ankle at times. At each pang of pain, he took in a sharp breath and stilled, momently made of stone:

“Will you stop, Ivushkin?” Jäger grunted across the room, startling Ivushkin. He turned his head to look at Jäger’s shape in the dim room, and by no means he would confess he was in pain:

“I’m cold…” he complained instead, realising too late it was somewhat of a poor excuse. The days were warm and, though the nights were still fresh… it wasn’t _cold._ He looked up at the ceiling and heard Jäger standing up from his bed. Ivushkin supposed the German would get him another blanket.

Instead, he felt the mattress sink as Jäger first sat at the edge of the bed, then sneaked under the blanket and lied on his side, pressing himself against Ivushkin and occupying half of the pillow. Ivushkin stilled immediately. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at Jäger, and in the dim room he could see the German’s eyes were closed, like he truly intended to sleep.

Ivushkin wasn’t comfortable, not at all. Especially when he started to feel Jäger’s breath tickling his neck. Ivushkin didn’t want to be close to Jäger – especially _that_ close. Not with what happened with them. The last person Ivushkin had been so close to had been Anya (and yet, he no longer remembered her face in detail) – other than that, since that night it had been Ivushkin seeing to his needs, and it had been enough.

Despite the discomfort, however, Ivushkin couldn’t deny he had missed that kind of proximity. Simply having someone so close, feel their warmth. Besides… with Jäger there, Ivushkin forced himself to stop shifting no matter the pain, and fell asleep sometime later.

* * *

 

When Ivushkin woke up, Jäger was on his feet, with his back turned at Ivushkin while getting dressed. Ivushkin, though having slept deeply, didn’t feel well-rested and there was lingering pain in his ankle. He didn’t even try to move, not even to push the blankets down – he felt warm – feverish, actually, and he immediately knew something was wrong with his ankle.

He startled slightly when Jäger’s head appeared suddenly above him. The German looked at him even more intensely than usual, his blue eyes roaming Ivushkin’s face like he was looking for something. Ivushkin admitted to himself Jäger’s blue eyes were stunning, but he didn’t like the growing crease on the German’s brow.

Ivushkin was then left alone for a few minutes, until Jäger returned with Katrine and Otto. Ivushkin understood Jäger must have noticed he was feverish, and he slowly propped himself up a little on his elbows to see his injured ankle when Otto pulled the blankets down, unwrapped the bandages and peeled off the gauze. Ivushkin couldn’t see anything wrong on the maimed flesh, but Otto and Katrine frowned:

“It’s infecting…” Otto muttered:

“You were vaccinated against tetanus, weren’t you?” Katrine asked in turn, but Ivushkin merely frowned in confusion. He saw how Jäger, standing behind his sister, threw his arms in the air and rolled his eyes, like Ivushkin had done something particularly stupid. Jäger then stared at Ivushkin, thoughtfully:

“When is the next town council?” he asked suddenly, and Ivushkin just knew, by the look on Jäger’s face, that he meant no good. Katrine’s frown and her answer confirmed Ivushkin’s conviction:

“You are _not_ going to a council, Klaus,” she said pointedly, jabbing a finger on her brother’s chest. “You have no matters to discuss there.”

“He stepped on a trap, but it could have a been a child, or an elderly!” Jäger argued hotly. Ivushkin scrunched up his face, doubting Jäger’s concern was as genuine as that – probably, the German meant that _he_ could have stepped on a trap. Ivushkin noticed how Katrine, crossing her arms in front of her chest, seemingly doubted her brother’s good citizenship:

“Everyone in the village knows about the traps: children, elderly and animals aren’t allowed in the woods,” Jäger widened his eyes at that, so much that Ivushkin expected them to pop out of his face. “I would never imagine you two would go to the woods to pick up mushrooms!”

Ivushkin snorted, because, considering how they had arrived to Katrine’s door and the matters between them… it was indeed unthinkable, stupid. Jäger seemed extremely offended by his sister’s words, though.  

Ivushkin had his wound cleaned and was given antibiotics. Yet, he once again refused the morphine injection Otto wanted to give him. He couldn’t bring himself to accept it with Jäger looking at him. After being tended to, Otto and Jäger left. Katrine brought him breakfast and made him a little company, then she left to take the children to school and run some errands.

Ivushkin was alone for some time. Katrine had left him a few books, and at first he tried to entertain himself by reading. But the lingering pain was distracting, and he soon concluded understanding what he was reading took too much effort in his feverish state. So, he left the books aside and closed his eyes, drifting into and off sleep.

He was startled again as a soaked towel was unceremoniously dropped on his forehead:

“I didn’t bring you all the way here to watch you die of infection, Ivushkin,” Jäger said, bent over Ivushkin. He had the same commanding voice as when he had sentenced Ivushkin to be a target for his men. Ivushkin grinned:

“That’s not for you to decide,” he replied flatly, looking up at Jäger. The soaked towel felt wonderful and he closed his eyes, relishing the feeling.

For the next days, Ivushkin didn’t get better, but he also didn’t get much worse. He learned from Katrine’s visits to check on him that she had forbidden her children from coming to the attic, otherwise Ivushkin wouldn’t have a moment of peace. Besides Katrine’s regular – and Otto’s daily – visits, Ivushkin’s only company was Jäger. Jäger only left in the morning – Ivushkin was certain he was going to attend to the horses in the barn – and then throughout of the day would leave only momently to bring them food. Jäger’s company was mostly silent, but Ivushkin was truly grateful the German was there: his initial discomfort of being weakened while Jäger was around him still gnawed at the back of his mind, but it had been mostly replaced by a feeling of relief, of knowing that he wasn’t _alone_ \- Ivushkin had once thought Jäger might feel alone and dislocated with his family, and the German’s constant presence in the attic assured Ivushkin that Jäger must indeed feel lonely unless he had that one link, Ivushkin, to the war. Ivushkin assumed Jäger liked to look at him and remind himself of when he was in control. Ivushkin didn’t like to be that kind of link, but he also had to admit that, as ridiculous as it sounded, Jäger’s company made his stay in a foreign land… bearable. He still didn’t know what to do next to find his way back to his homeland, but his priority for the time being was healing fully.

Jäger hadn’t slept in Ivushkin’s bed again, nor had they talked about it. Ivushkin was grateful for both, thought he thought often about the feeling of a body next to his.

* * *

 

When Ivushkin finally got rid of the fever, he began to tentatively move his ankle again. It hurt, and though Otto told him he still had to be in bed, Ivushkin was tired of it.

He shouldn’t be surprised about Jäger supporting his rebellion against the doctor’s orders, but he was. When Otto said his verdict and left, Jäger immediately jumped from his bed and stood beside Ivushkin’s with a stretched hand. He looked inviting. Harmless. Reluctantly, Ivushkin took his hand, immediately remembering the moment he had tried to save Jäger from falling in the water. It felt distant. He watched as Jäger smiled, visibly pleased, and helped Ivushkin to stand on a shaky, weakened healthy leg. Eagerly, Ivushkin put his other foot down, feeling an immediate spark of pain. He knew he should stop, but he didn’t want to. He gave a tentative step forwards, leaning on Jäger, and swallowed down a pained whimper when he put weight on his injured ankle – he would have fallen, but Jäger was there to catch him. Ivushkin thought he would focus on regaining strength and balance on his healthy leg, first.

Yet, at night, Ivushkin was in pain again and he could only chastise himself for not taking Otto’s medical expertise – and for not asking for morphine. As a result of the pain, he shifted restlessly in his bed, wrinkling the sheets and the blanket and making the mattress creak. He was lying stiffly on his back, with his injured ankle propped up a pillow, and having to stay like that didn’t give him much opportunity to figure a better, more relieving position.

“Ivushkin!” Jäger complained across the room:

“It hurts!” Ivushkin complained back, realising too late he had admitted aloud a precious secret no one – _definitely not Jäger_ – should know about. Ivushkin, too busy trying to get comfortable, didn’t even notice the sudden silence in the room, and he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt Jäger lying down next to him, under the blanket.

Ivushkin stilled immediately, discomfort crawling all over his skin. He didn’t want Jäger _that_ close.

He froze completely and held his breath the moment he felt Jäger’s lips brushing the skin of his neck. Ivushkin found himself numbed, unable to think. Discomfort turned into goose bumps and he momently forgot about the pain. But nothing followed, and Ivushkin was once again able to reason and move, and he looked sharply at Jäger, convinced the German was a sleepwalker.

Yet Jäger was looking back at him, his blue eyes dark and intense. Ivushkin might as well have looked the devil in the eye and he hurriedly looked away, suddenly very nervous. All his senses were alert and the pain had been forgotten.

Then Ivushkin felt Jäger’s lips on the skin of his neck, again. He found it extremely offensive, but at the same time tentative and gentle. Ivushkin wanted to push Jäger off the bed – _god, why hadn’t Jäger died?? –_ but all he did was remaining still, doing what he did best: studying Jäger. Ivushkin found a pattern: Jäger brushed his lips on Ivushkin’s neck, then stopped, then started again, growing bolder yet remaining gentle. It all felt wrong, yet undeniably pleasant. Ivushkin couldn’t remember the last time he had had that type of contact – or he could remember, he only didn’t properly remember Anya’s face, nor how it had felt. It had been an eternity ago, in another life. His and others’ lives had been at stake, everything had been adrenaline-filled and exciting and promising… and Ivushkin concluded that in the present only his sanity was endangered, and there was nothing remarkable about it.

Ivushkin admitted to himself he felt lonely, and that was why he hadn’t pushed Jäger away. He admitted he craved the little warm sparks of being teased, and someone else’s warmth. Part of him shouted it was all incredibly wrong, and who knew what game Jäger was playing? Ivushkin wondered Jäger might be feeling alone for completely different reasons other than the war, and those were not the reasons Ivushkin had.

Ivushkin huffed in surprise when Jäger propped himself up on an elbow and bent towards Ivushkin, resting a heavy hand on his chest. Ivushkin stared at Jäger with wide-eyes, but the German said nothing – he merely dove down and captured Ivushkin’s lips in a tentative, gentle kiss.

Ivushkin didn’t dare to breath and was once again momently unable to think. He would have closed his eyes at the pleasurable feeling on his lips, if only it wasn’t _Jäger_ kissing him. Ivushkin desperately needed to understand what the German wanted and what sort of new game was that. The hand on his chest remained still, but Jäger’s kissing became more decided. Not invasive – _yet_ , Ivushkin thought with a frown.

Still, Ivushkin didn’t move, didn’t shove Jäger away. The discomfort was wearing off, replaced by the acceptance that he wished for this kind of contact, that he had gone for too long without it. He didn’t particularly like Jäger, but he liked what Jäger was doing.

Then the hand on his chest closed into a fist, tugging at his pyjama shirt, and Jäger tilted his head and increased the pressure in the kiss, sucking and nibbling at Ivushkin’s lips. Ivushkin gasped in surprise, and his eyes fluttered closed as he _finally_ discovered what Jäger was up to: control.

Ivushkin felt like laughing, because with Jäger everything resumed to control. Jäger had been the captor, had held Ivushkin’s life in his hands; then had been outsmarted, and defeated; then had gained control again, and though the circumstances had taken it away from him, Ivushkin now clearly saw Jäger was once again trying to get it. Ivushkin snorted, amused, at how Jäger so naïvely thought that, since Ivushkin was momentarily weakened because of the pain, he would simply surrender, let Jäger be in control again. As was now tradition between them, Ivushkin wouldn’t let him. Ivushkin wanted to outsmart Jäger again, and defeat him, and ultimately be the one in control.

Ivushkin’s hands closed around Jäger’s shirt and pulled the German down, closer, and he forced his tongue in. That earned him a surprised gasp from Jäger, and Ivushkin smiled into the kiss. He had forgotten Jäger’s games were adrenaline-filled, and exciting, and promising. The discomfort was gone and Ivushkin no longer remembered about the pain. He was busy fighting another sort of battle, one that required quick manoeuvring, aim and timing, like tanks. Ivushkin found Jäger a good match, and was almost made prisoner again when he felt Jäger’s hand close around his neck slowly, in a surge of possessiveness.

But Ivushkin didn’t want to be made a prisoner. He wanted to win, this time. Wanted to make a prisoner. One his hands reached down and slipped inside Jäger’s underwear.

The German went immediately still and broke the kiss, staring down at Ivushkin with wide eyes, surprise written all over his flushed face. Ivushkin merely smiled a toothy grin as he held Jäger firmly, feeling the full length of him:

“Seems I found unguarded ammunition, again,” Ivushkin said, slowly. That earned him a dark smile, all teeth, and a predatory look from Jäger. Ivushkin knew Jäger would try to gain the upper hand again: he always did, even if it was as unconventional - and deadly - as falling into the water with a tank. So, Ivushkin began to stroke, slowly, and Jäger eventually hid his face on the crook of Ivushkin’s neck. Ivushkin didn’t count that as victory, though: he knew Jäger was up to something, and kept stroking.

Soon enough, Ivushkin felt Jäger hold him and stroke him as well, quickly, and Ivushkin let out a surprised – yet muffled – gasp when Jäger’s free hand pulled at his hair and yanked his head back. Then Jäger’s mouth was on his again, demanding and possessive, but no matter how good it felt, Ivushkin wouldn’t let Jäger win just like that. He increased the speed of his strokes too, and with his other arm pulled Jäger closer, grabbed a fistful of his hair and thought about pulling Jäger’s head to the side to access his neck.

But Jäger anticipated him, and he sucked and bit a trail of hungry kisses from the corner of Ivushkin’s mouth, along his jaw and down his neck. Ivushkin still tugged at Jäger’s hair, but deep down he knew it had lost its purpose – Ivushkin felt warm sparks all over him, and tension building up in his abdomen, and it made him want to be weak and compliant. Instead, he kept stroking Jäger, hoping he would finish Jäger before the German finished him. Just like when their tanks finally met.

Yet, that night, Jäger won. Ivushkin still went down with dignity, swallowing down a moan as he arched his back. He hummed, however, as Jäger dug his teeth on his shoulder when Ivushkin finished him.

The silence that followed was as expectant as that following a battle. Ivushkin was panting and sweaty, but pleasantly numbed. He didn’t miss the scent of fuel, gunpowder, burnt iron and scorched flesh so characteristic of battle. For once, he wasn’t bruised and didn’t have blood dripping from his ears. He turned his head slightly, to look at Jäger, lying on his stomach and taking part of the pillow for himself like he intended to stay there.

Ivushkin admitted to himself he wouldn’t stop the German from staying, if he wanted. He looked up at the ceiling again, feeling his body unusually heavy – yet satisfyingly light at the same time. He no longer remembered the pain and he would have changed position and jolted his injured ankle if only he weren’t that… tired. He closed his eyes and didn’t take long to fall asleep.

* * *

 

Ivushkin woke up with the feeling of being watched – and, though his eyes were still closed and his mind was still blank, he knew who it was. He turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes, to see two stunning blue orbs looking at him intensely. Jäger smirked at Ivushkin, who rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling again. He still considered himself a graceful loser.

By the corner of his eye, Ivushkin saw Jäger roll off the bed and stand up, hair and pyjama in complete disarray. He then heard the German walk into the bathroom, start the water to fill the bathtub and then return:

“We need to hurry before my sister comes up,” Jäger stated, and Ivushkin grimaced at him – because he knew that. They had to get rid of any evidence from the… battle. He changed to a sitting position and swung his legs off the bed. His ankle throbbed, and Ivushkin wasn’t so sure about abusing it again. So, he waited for Jäger to open the small round window first, and when the German walked back to him and offered him a hand, Ivushkin took it.

Lately, Ivushkin’s baths had consisted of merely washing himself with a towel – even when he had been feverish, he had stubbornly still done it himself. Only the day before had he taken the chance to go to the bathroom with Jäger’s help and shave. So, the perspective of a proper bath was highly cheering, even if it involved sharing the bathtub with Jäger: not that they had talked about it, Ivushkin merely knew it would happen.

The small bathroom was a bit too cramped for the two of them. Jäger helped Ivushkin to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and the two of them proceeded to undress silently. Ivushkin wasn’t sure he should put his injured ankle underwater yet, and after a moment of simply staring at it while being vaguely aware of Jäger getting in the bathtub, he concluded that, since he was already trying to walk when Otto had told him to be still, he should keep the stitches dry.

Ivushkin startled when he felt Jäger holding him from behind. Then he relaxed a little, leaned against Jäger’s chest and allowed the German to pull him into the bathtub and accommodate the two of them. Ivushkin left his injured ankle out, resting at the edge of the bathtub, while he nestled himself between Jäger’s folded legs and remained leaning against his chest. The hot water around him made him sigh in satisfaction, and he allowed himself to be still just for a moment, to appreciate the warmth and the closeness of Jäger’s body, that had gone from uncomfortable to… acceptable:

“Battle or imprisonment?” Jäger asked curiously, touching lightly at some of Ivushkin’s scars on his back and shoulders:

“Both,” he replied. Jäger hummed:

"Where did you get the ammunition, Ivushkin?" To that, Ivushkin laughed and glanced over his shoulder with a mocking smile:

"They were inside the tank. I had my crew hiding them in the dead bodies," he explained, laughing harder at how Jäger nodded in acknowledgement and grimaced at how the Germans had indeed been careless. Jäger traced a few more of Ivushkin's scars, then reached out for the soap. But Ivushkin was quick to steal it from him.

Lathering up and rinsing by himself was not a problem for Ivushkin – the real problem arose when they had to get out of the bathtub. By the way Jäger burst out laughing behind Ivushkin, Ivushkin supposed Jäger was thoroughly amused by the situation. Which was, indeed, amusing, because burning tanks under enemy fire were much more difficult to escape from than a mere bathtub – for that, Ivushkin chuckled, and complied to bend forwards a little when Jäger pressed a hand on his back. Ivushkin turned his head slightly as he heard Jäger stand up behind him in the water, and watched as the German stepped out of the bathtub, dripping water and with his hair plastered to his head. Just like when he had emerged from the waters where he should have died.

Ivushkin studied Jäger’s body with the same judgement he would study a different model of tank, his roving eyes watching all of Jäger’s athletic frame. He noticed a small tattoo in black ink, in the fancy letters the Germans liked so much, in the inside of Jäger’s left arm, near the armpit:

“What’s that?” he asked, motioning the tattoo:

“My blood-type.”

Ivushkin just nodded, took another look at Jäger and allowed the German to help him, though he frowned at how Jäger was so visibly pleased to hoist him up and help him out of the bathtub. He supposed Jäger, besides not being a graceful loser, was also not a graceful winner. Ivushkin found that needed to be taken care of. So, when Ivushkin was finally standing on his healthy leg in front of Jäger, he raised a hand and traced the scars on Jäger’s face, one by one:

“So, I did these…” he stated. Jäger nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Ivushkin then leaned forwards and captured Jäger's lips in a kiss. Judging by how Jäger hummed in surprise, Ivushkin took it as a successful surprise attack – and he hummed too, pleased, as he lured Jäger into a trap. He felt Jäger step closer to him, and wrap his arms around him. Ivushkin even let him control the kiss, and let him pepper his neck and jaw with kisses and nibble at his earlobe.

Then Ivushkin went for the final blow:

“Don’t, your sister will be here at any moment,” he whispered in Jäger’s ear, smiling slyly at how Jäger, already aroused, froze and immediately pulled away from him. Ivushkin watched, amused, at how Jäger had the looks of a child who had had a present in hands, but someone had taken it before they could unwrap it.

* * *

 

Later, Ivushkin was sitting on the steps of the porch. His ankle throbbed – Jäger had helped him down, despite Katrine’s complaints about how he wasn’t good enough to be moving around like that. It had felt wonderful to eat breakfast sitting at the table, and Ivushkin smiled at the thought that the children would be pleasantly surprised to see him again.

But feeling the sun on his face was the best of all. He had his eyes closed, and remained so for quite some time – he even kept them closed when he heard the approaching of ironclad hooves, and when someone stopped in front of him and then sat next to him, leaving a gigantic horse to block the sun. Ivushkin sighed and cracked one eye open, to see Jäger next to him and holding the reins of the dapple-grey horse:

“Town council is today,” Jäger said nonchalantly. Ivushkin frowned. “Otto told me.”

“Otto is afraid of you…” To that accusation, Jäger merely grinned, delighted. One of his insane grins. Ivushkin snorted. “Katrine won’t like it.”

To that, Jäger merely shrugged. Ivushkin watched him for a moment, studying his profile, feeling like suddenly he was starting to _know_ Jäger. And what a fascinating creature the German was:

“I don’t want you to go,” Ivushkin stated, looking away from Jäger and to the horse blocking his view and the sun. Ivushkin truly didn’t want Jäger to go, because he knew Jäger would wreak havoc, get himself in trouble and then get Katrine and Otto in trouble in his behalf. Ivushkin felt like Jäger couldn’t simply be released into society without having understood that he wasn’t a colonel anymore, that he no longer made the rules and commanded everyone and everything as it pleased him. Ivushkin doubted Katrine could ever demilitarise Jäger – in fact, Ivushkin doubted he himself could do it, because he, too, still saw things through the periscope of his tank.

Still, Ivushkin knew he was the most reasonable of the two. Maybe having seen the front only once in his life had its benefits.

Besides, he had to gain advantage and recover from the night’s defeat. He closed his eyes:

“I want you to stay.”

There was silence for a moment, then Ivushkin felt Jäger standing up. The sound of hooves followed and the sun kissed his face again. Ivushkin cracked on eye open to see Jäger heading back to the pastures with the Percheron horse.

That night, while Ivushkin changed to his pyjamas, Jäger seemed more interested in standing in the tips of his toes, chewing at his pipe while looking outside through the small round window, instead of getting ready to sleep. Ivushkin snorted and made a bet with himself: the moment he lied down to sleep, Jäger would join him. Ivushkin didn’t know why, it was merely a gut feeling – but he had learned to trust his gut.

So, Ivushkin lied on his back and sprawled under the blanket. His ankle stung, but the pain was more bearable than what it had been the night before. Ivushkin closed his eyes, but all his senses were alert. He could hear Jäger suck on the mouthpiece of his pipe, and an owl outside, and a dog barking in the distance, and Jäger walking away from the window and into the bathroom, and running water, and again Jäger walking. Ivushkin didn’t want to admit it, but it felt like the German was taking a bit too long to lie down – Jäger was like clockwork: he lied down to sleep at night and jumped to his feet in the morning at the exact same time every day.

Ivushkin found that delay rather upsetting. He even thought he had miscalculated everything and had made a poor judgement of Jäger’s behaviour the previous night, but then he heard Jäger approach him, and felt the German crawl under the blankets and arrange Ivushkin so that they would both fit in the bed.

When Ivushkin felt Jäger occupy half of the pillow and breath on his neck, Ivushkin knew he had won that round.

* * *

 

For the next few nights, Ivushkin figured victory didn’t have to do with who finished who first, but with who _went_ to who first. Like clockwork, Jäger would always crawl in bed after Ivushkin – sometimes they just slept, sometimes they pleasured each other.

Until one night, Ivushkin lied down on his half of the mattress, watched by the corner of his eye how Jäger changed into his pyjamas… and then frowned when Jäger lied on _his_ bed. Still, Ivushkin waited for a while, but when it was clear that Jäger wouldn’t come to his bed, Ivushkin climbed out of the bed and hopped on his healthy leg towards Jäger’s bed, then flopped onto it ungraciously – Jäger, however, didn’t complain: merely scooted over to make room for Ivushkin, then turned around to face him and draped an arm around him.

Only in that moment did Ivushkin realise he had fallen in a trap, and that night’s victory belonged to Jäger because it had been Ivushkin seeking him. Nestling in Jäger’s arms, Ivushkin plotted revenge.

He put his plan to action at dawn, when he woke up in the growing brightness in the attic. He realised he must have anticipated Jäger for merely minutes, but that was the advantage he wanted. With a satisfied smirk, Ivushkin leaned forwards and planted a soft kiss on Jäger’s lips, and another, and another, until the German grunted and opened one eye lazily. Since Jäger was finally awaken, Ivushkin kissed him more thoroughly, sucking at his lips and parting them with his tongue. Jäger hummed, pleased and obviously clueless, and Ivushkin almost laughed at how naïve Jäger could be. A moment seemingly a lifetime ago flashed in the back of Ivushkin’s mind: he and Jäger and Anya were sitting together at the table, and Jäger was trying so hard to break the ice between him and Ivushkin. Since Jäger had discussed military strategy eloquently, Ivushkin had doubted he had been drunk. Ivushkin remembered he had been enthralled by Anya, but he could no longer remember the details of her face, nor her voice.

Kissing and climbing atop of Jäger, Ivushkin congratulated himself for having discovered Jäger’s greatest weakness: _over-confidence_. Ivushkin realised that, once Jäger thought things were working for him, he tended to trust those involved and let things happen. Ivushkin had no doubts that, had he played target and successfully survived the training, Jäger would have rewarded him greatly. He also had no doubts that, in that precise moment, Jäger was convinced Ivushkin would do wonders to him simply because he wanted to please him.

Which… Ivushkin didn’t mind to do. It felt good for both. He just wanted to remind Jäger control was a feeble thing, and that pain didn’t necessarily mean helplessness. Deepening the kiss, Ivushkin intertwined fingers with Jäger and pinned his hands above his head, then held Jäger’s wrists with a hand and used his other hand to unbutton Jäger’s pyjama shirt. Jäger merely sighed in contentment, and Ivushkin broke the kiss to pepper Jäger’s collarbones with innocent pecks.

Then, in one fluid motion, Ivushkin caressed Jäger’s scars with a feather-like touch, rolled away and stood on his healthy leg, looking with a smug grin at how confused and lost and _offended_ Jäger looked:

“I wonder what’s breakfast, today!” Ivushkin chirped happily, and hopped away into the bathroom.

Much for Ivushkin’s amusement, Jäger seemed to pout for the rest of the day – he still helped Ivushkin to walk around the farm, but he didn’t talk to Ivushkin, and every time he looked at Ivushkin, he did so with clear disapproval. At night, however, he crawled into Ivushkin’s bed right after Ivushkin lied down:

“Troublesome as always, Nikolai…” Jäger grunted at Ivushkin’s ear:

“You’re a handful, too…” Ivushkin replied nonchalantly, then smiled – almost fondly – at the memory of how Jäger had been so excited about the similarity between their names. Ivushkin no longer knew whether to call Jäger fool or childish. “You hadn’t called me that in a while.”

Jäger said nothing, merely burrowed his head on the crook of Ivushkin's neck and wrapped an arm around him. Ivushkin frowned, thoughtful, and wondered what new scheme was that because Jäger wasn’t trying to get what he had been denied in the morning. Ivushkin wondered if, _sometimes,_ Jäger just did what he did out of sheer unplanned need. If Jäger indeed felt genuinely lonely and merely sought company without any controlling intention behind it. Ivushkin would like to believe that, but he knew well that, when it came to Jäger, appearance was deceiving, and the little tornado of chaotic energy was constantly visible through Jäger’s piercing blue eyes.

The next morning, when Ivushkin woke up, Jäger was already awaken and was staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Ivushkin immediately assumed Jäger was coming up with a new plan, and he rolled his eyes at the thought. Still, he climbed atop of him to kiss him, and was immediately met by a suspicious narrowing of eyes. Ivushkin scoffed at that:

“Stop pouting, Klaus,” And Jäger’s expression softened.

* * *

 

When they went down for breakfast, Otto and the children were already gone. Katrine was assembling ingredients to prepare lunch, and she looked disapprovingly at them once they walked in the kitchen:

“Klaus, the horses need to eat at the same hour, every day,” she scolded. Ivushkin wasn’t surprised at all when the German helped him to sit, then pointed an accusing finger at him. Katrine ignored her twin, but cast an annoyed look at Ivushkin as well. “And Nikolai, you shouldn’t even be up.”

To that, Ivushkin pointed an accusing finger at Jäger. They had to be even.

Ignoring breakfast on the table, Jäger walked up to his sister to hug her, but Katrine moved away from him. Ivushkin looked at them with interest, and he could tell Jäger was plotting something so outrageous he needed to flatter his sister, first; Ivushkin could also tell Katrine knew better:

“I thought I could take my nephews for ice cream, after school,” Jäger explained innocently, following his sister around the kitchen until she shoved a large cookbook against his chest, making him huff:

“You’re not taking my children anywhere,” Katrine replied dryly, then returned to the counter, where she had gathered some ingredients, and seemingly busied herself with sorting out the various items.

Jäger was visibly upset. He ate breakfast hurriedly, then left by the kitchen’s backdoor, leaving Ivushkin and Katrine alone. Ivushkin didn’t blame Katrine, he understood her concerns – Jäger’s scarred face immediately gave him away, but Ivushkin understood better how freedom was so important:

“What if he took them to the city?” Ivushkin asked. “People stared at him when we went there… but said nothing.”

“Don’t be so innocent, Nikolai…” Katrine muttered, annoyed. “Things aren’t always what they seem, with Klaus. Not anymore. He’s not interested in taking his nephews for ice cream, he just wants to fill their heads with his stupid ideas.”

“Trust me when I tell you I have more reasons to suspect of him than you do…” Ivushkin was certain that Jäger truly wanted to go out with his nephews, he clearly loved them. Still, Ivushkin knew Katrine was right.

No matter how friendly and charming and harmless Jäger seemed to be, Ivushkin would have to keep in mind that Jäger could have destroyed him – Jäger had the skill, and the boldness.

Ivushkin wondered, for the rest of the day, if there would ever be water under the bridge for them.

* * *

 

They continued with their game for some days. Ivushkin initially felt victorious as Jäger went up to him every night, but he also became suspicious as to what Jäger could be possibly planning to do next. Ivushkin didn’t bring up the subject, instead thought of how to hold on to his advantage – and concluded that, by changing strategy, he would catch Jäger completely by surprise.

When Jäger lied next to him that night, with a mysterious smile as he started to unbutton Ivushkin’s pyjama shirt, Ivushkin decided to start the operation. He turned his back at Jäger:

“Don’t,” he said, and after a moment of tension, Jäger complied.

For a whole week, Ivushkin didn’t let Jäger do anything, until Jäger started to sleep on his own bed again. Yet Ivushkin wouldn’t fall into that trap again, and he wondered how long the new measuring of strength would take – and who would break first.

Jäger still helped Ivushkin to walk around, but by speechless agreement they didn’t talk with each other. One evening, however, Katrine decided to give Ivushkin a pair of crutches under the logical excuse that, since Ivushkin wanted to walk freely, with the crutches he wouldn’t have to rely on Jäger.

And, since Ivushkin could climb up and down the ladder to the attic using only his arms and healthy leg, soon enough Jäger didn’t even touch him to help him.

During the few weeks that Ivushkin’s strategical retreat lasted, he noticed with curiosity that, though he didn’t _miss_ Jäger, he did feel like something comforting was lacking. The satisfaction of a caprice, the fulfillment of an embarrassing need: Ivushkin liked to trace the scars in Jäger’s face, and trace the sharp arch of Jäger’s upper lip while Jäger stared at him through half-lidded eyes, and he liked when Jäger tugged at his hair and nibbled at his ears and neck. He wondered if Jäger felt similarly devoid of that comfort, but Jäger avoided being alone with him for as long as possible, and Ivushkin stubbornly refused to steal glances at him during the night, fearing he might undermine his own plan of action.

Yet Ivushkin would be lying if he didn’t admit he wanted Jäger to yield first, since it had been Jäger starting this whole… thing. From the very beginning, during the race to Moscow.

* * *

 

There was a bulky dresser with a mirror in the corridor that connected the living room to the stairs to go to the first and second floors and to the attic. In the middle of the corridor there was the door to the kitchen and the bulky dresser with the mirror was right in front of the entrance. As Ivushkin approached, he heard Katrine and Jäger arguing. That made him stop and he concluded that they hadn’t heard the crutches on the wood boards of the floor. For a moment, Ivushkin thought on what was the best thing to do: turn around and give them privacy, or walk in the kitchen and consequently end their argument.

But then Ivushkin noticed he could see them in the mirror, and apparently they couldn’t see him. He stood there and watched, interested, as Katrine paced around furiously in front of Jäger, sitting at the table with his back turned at the door. Ivushkin couldn’t see his face. Jäger’s back was hunched, and he occasionally ran a hand through his hair, like he was nervous about something:

“-and now what happened??” Ivushkin heard, watching through the mirror how Katrine finally stopped next to Jäger, standing with her arms crossed rigidly in front of her chest. A puff of smoke rose in the air, and Ivushkin understood Jäger had his pipe with him:

“Nothing happened,” he heard Jäger grunt, addressing his sister in an unusually aggressive tone. Ivushkin was sure Jäger had never used that tone on him.

“Don’t lie to me, Klaus,” Katrine pointed a threatening finger at Jäger. “I _feel_ it.”

“Now we have a special connection again?” Jäger mocked. Ivushkin wondered if Jäger was drunk, but then he thought it unlikely – Jäger had looked like the quiet and thoughtful type of drunk, not the aggressive type. Jäger was probably very upset at something. Ivushkin’s gut tightened in anticipation:

“Klaus, I’m a married woman. I know things,” Katrine replied harshly, fanning her hand to dismiss the smoke from Jäger’s pipe. “And I do the laundry in this house, remember?”

Ivushkin grimaced and shrank a little into his clothes, staring with wide eyes at the mirror. In the reflection, Jäger immediately straightened his back and jumped to his feet, and for a moment Ivushkin feared he would strike his sister. Yet Jäger merely stood there, pipe abandoned on the table:

“What did you get yourself into this time??” Katrine asked again, sternly. “There are women in the village who-“

Ivushkin watched with wide eyed as Jäger stepped further away from his sister after snatching his pipe from the table:

“I don’t want that!” he grunted and turned around, to face the door. Ivushkin tried to become one with the wall, suddenly fearing Jäger could see him through the mirror, though he knew that, from where Jäger stood, that wasn’t possible.

Ivushkin watched, barely breathing, how Jäger and Katrine were silent for a moment. He couldn’t see Jäger’s face in detail in the mirror, but Ivushkin could imagine him with clenched jaws, the mouthpiece of his pipe secured firmly between his teeth, and he could imagine Jäger’s scars shifting as he tensed his jaws, and a deep crease on his forehead, and daggers coming out of his eyes, and flared nostrils.

Ivushkin was so focused on Jäger’s face that he almost didn’t notice how Katrine’s face softened, and how she took a tentative step towards her brother:

“Is that why you brought him?” That had Ivushkin wondering again about how Jäger might not be such a coward after all; it must have taken boldness to fetch Ivushkin from prison and put him in a tank, and it must have taken a great deal of stupidity to keep Ivushkin alive after being recaptured and then deserting with him. It also must have taken all of Jäger’s naïvety and confidence to start that game with Ivushkin. 

But Jäger didn’t answer. Instead, he strode towards the door.

Putting on his best innocent face, Ivushkin immediately proceeded his way into the kitchen, being as loud as possible with the crutches. He almost collided with Jäger as the German stormed out and he walked in, but he kept his balance and headed towards the table like he had just arrived. Yet, Ivushkin found it difficult to look Katrine in the eye. He greeted her, but kept his eyes on the table. His breakfast was set and he sat at the chair previously occupied by Jäger. Ivushkin didn’t know if Katrine would say anything about her argument with Jäger, and he wondered if he should let her know he had been listening. In fact, hiding it from both Katrine and Jäger seemed suddenly pointless… cynical, even, and Ivushkin considered one might look cynical by being defiant, but these were very distinct things. He quickly recalled all his interactions with Jäger during the war, but it didn’t seem to him that, at any point, Jäger had been cynical – there had always been something earnest in the intensity of his gaze.

Ivushkin stared down at the bread and cheese on his plate, then finally looked up to Katrine, who seemed busy looking for a particular pan among those stored in one of the cabinets:

“I wasn’t sure Jäger meant it like that,” he said quietly. Katrine looked over her shoulder, the look on her face indecipherable. “We have a bit of a history of chasing and ambushing. He’s very competent.”

Katrine offered him a weak smile, and Ivushkin understood she wasn’t irremediably angry at them:

“You do realise ‘Jäger’ means ‘hunter’…” she stated, and Ivushkin nodded. It was indeed interesting how the circumstances of their lives – names included – had intertwined them.

Ivushkin didn’t know if he would ever see his mother again. He wanted to, even if only once, even if for a short time. He knew, however, Katrine would be a great part of his life, whether he stayed or not. He knew, too, she was a big part of Jäger’s life. And Jäger was a big part of Ivushkin’s life:

“Did Jäger ever tell you how he got the scars on his face?” Ivushkin asked. Katrine shook her head no.

And Ivushkin told her a summary of their story.

* * *

 

It was twice Ivushkin knew secret details of Jäger’s plans: if Anya hadn’t told him Jäger had mines hidden around the training ground, Ivushkin’s tank would have probably stepped on one if he hadn’t changed the escape route towards the main gate; and if Ivushkin hadn’t overheard the twins that morning, he would be left waiting to ambush an enemy who would no longer follow the expected route.

But the beauty of war consisted of surprises, and if Ivushkin had been able to hide for hours in a pile of hay, waiting for the night was no problem for him.

He went to the attic shortly after Jäger climbed up. He found the German changing to his pyjamas, methodically folding his clothes as he removed them. Ivushkin discarded the crutches near the trapdoor and hopped to his bed:

“When are you going go Zürich, Klaus?” he asked, schooling his voice and face into almost perfect indifference. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Jäger staring at him over the shoulder as well:

“You need a ride to catch the train to Moscow?” Jäger asked in turn, returning his attention to the clothes he was folding. Ivushkin kept looking at him, amused:

“One day, perhaps,” he said, and raised his eyebrows as he noticed Jäger’s movements slowing down. “But since you made me company when I went to the city, I figured I could retribute the favour.”

Jäger looked over his shoulder again, staring at Ivushkin with narrowed eyes. Ivushkin allowed himself to smile the smuggest of smiles, just like when he had perfect aim:

“And maybe we should do our laundry…” The final blow, and Ivushkin watched with proud satisfaction as it hit the target just like he had expected.

Jäger widened his eyes and turned around to face him. For a moment, he stared at Ivushkin with the same hateful expression he had used after their duel – Ivushkin could even pinpoint where the blood had been on his face. Then Jäger’s expression changed to the same excited and amused smile he had used when pointing out they had similar names.

Rolling his eyes, Ivushkin turned his back at Jäger and started to undress. He heard Jäger approach, then felt Jäger’s breath and lips on the back of his neck, and Jäger’s hands sneaking under his shirt:

“I’ll get you one of these days, Kolya,” Jäger whispered in Ivushkin’s ear. “And I’ll tear your tank piece by piece…”

Ivushkin hummed and closed his eyes:

“And I’ll push you to the edge, Klaus. And I will watch you fall.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then this happened. :')

It was the end of September and Ivushkin was lying on his back, with an arm folded under his head and his other arm wrapped loosely around Jäger’s shoulders. The room was dark, with only a beam of moonlight coming in by the small round window. Ivushkin still felt too warm to pull the blanket up:

“I’ll need to go to Zürich to sort out some things,” Jäger announced suddenly, resting his chin on Ivushkin’s chest and looking him in the eye. “You stay here. I’ll be gone for a month, then I’ll come back for you.”

Ivushkin frowned. He felt a strange knot in his gut, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it and examine it. He looked up at the ceiling:

“And if you don’t?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible. If time had come to finally part ways… then Ivushkin wanted to be sure he could go back home.

Ivushkin felt Jäger grab his chin and tilt his head down, to look him in the eye again. Jäger looked very serious – angry, almost:

“I am coming back for you,” the German hissed.

And, the next day, Ivushkin was left alone at Katrine’s house. Ivushkin grudgingly admitted to himself he resented Jäger for having informed him of his departure only the previous night. Ivushkin’s resentment was replaced by old hatred the moment he noticed his wallet – _his documents_ – was gone again, and his anger and despise made Jäger’s absence much more bearable. Especially at night. By no means would Ivushkin allow himself to miss the already familiarity of Jäger’s body.

The anger eventually began to wear off, and so did despise and resentment. Every night and every morning Ivushkin repeated to himself he was a fully grown-man and perfectly capable of dealing with the sudden solitude he had been left in, even more if he considered the time he had spent imprisoned.

Yet, Ivushkin knew that was exactly why he hadn’t pushed Jäger off the bed when they first started that game.

For the whole month of October, Jäger was gone. Ivushkin asked Katrine if she knew what her twin was plotting, but she didn’t know either and was as surprised as Ivushkin with his sudden departure. Ivushkin sometimes wondered if she worried he had been abandoned there permanently, but he didn’t ask.

Ivushkin felt that it was rather embarrassing to be around Katrine without Jäger to focus all attention on his person. Ivushkin knew Katrine was aware of what he and her brother had been up to, and he couldn’t tell if Katrine was still angry at them - _at Ivushkin_ \- for that. Again, he didn’t ask, but Katrine acted like nothing had happened.

As days went by, Ivushkin felt lonelier at night. Almost like he was back to being a prisoner, locked away in a cell, all by himself in the cold. Ivushkin realised, with a certain level of concern, that he might have lowered his guard a bit too much once he had discovered Jäger meant their game and, as such, that it was safe to venture into seeing what was there to like about the German.

So, Ivushkin took the chance that Jäger wasn’t there to build up some defences again. It wasn’t like he didn’t want Jäger – he wanted him, but in _his_ terms.

* * *

 

When Jäger returned to the farm, on foot, in the cold morning of the second day of November, he seemed very pleased with himself. Not even a heated argument with Katrine in the kitchen (that Ivushkin was aware of because their muffled yet exalted voices reached the front deck) ruined his mood. Once Jäger appeared on the deck, he was carrying his backpack and told Ivushkin to pack up as well, then headed off to the barn. Ivushkin stood on the deck, until he saw Jäger leaving on the Percheron horse.

Ivushkin was confused (he didn’t want to admit how _relieved_ he felt about Jäger’s return) and offended, because he had nothing to pack up. His wallet hadn’t even been returned. Jäger hadn’t even acted like he had missed him. Ivushkin merely waited on the deck.

In the meantime Katrine appeared, straight-faced as always, but made him silent company. Her children eventually returned from school, but Ivushkin didn’t know if he should mention he was leaving, and so remained quiet. After eating and helping Katrine with the dishes, he went back to the front deck.

Jäger returned some hours later, driving a car – a black Mercedes, and it had Ivushkin narrowing his eyes in suspicion. The sound of the engine and of the car stopping drew Katrine – and consequently, her children - out, and there was a bombardment of questions as the children demanded to know why ‘Uncle Jäger and Kolya’ were leaving. Ivushkin, still completely lost as how to behave and what to say, allowed Jäger to handle the situation. Ivushkin noticed Katrine wasn’t pleased at Jäger’s answer of ‘Kolya and I are going on an adventure!’, and he frowned suspiciously at that. Jäger then shoved a roll of banknotes (‘For Schimmel.’) and a paper with a number and address in Katrine’s hands. Finally, Jäger looked at Ivushkin for the first time since he had arrived, but he turned his back quickly, walked to the car and told Ivushkin to get in.

Though reluctant given the speed at which everything was unfolding, Ivushkin still sat on the passenger’s seat. Jäger immediately drove away without a word, and Ivushkin found all that… too mysterious, and he knew it was no good for him when he couldn’t understand Jäger’s plans.

Still, Ivushkin didn’t ask Jäger where they were going. He remained extremely alert as Jäger drove them away from Katrine’s village and through the lonely road across the valley that they had taken once to go to the nearest city, so that Ivushkin could have his roubles exchanged to francs. Ivushkin estimated they spent about half an hour in the car, until Jäger turned to a secondary road that led to another small village with disperse houses in the distance. Ivushkin frowned in suspicion and scanned his surroundings attentively.

He wanted to believe that Jäger no longer posed a life-threatening danger to him. Ivushkin would never forgive himself if he had miscalculated and misinterpreted Jäger during their game. Jäger’s silence and all-knowing smirk didn’t help…

Jäger made another turn to a lonely two-story country house that had an enclosed terrain all around it, a large low building attached to the ground-floor of the house, and a closed iron gate. Jäger stopped the car in front of the gate, opened it and drove in, only to stop again in the front yard. The moment the car stopped, the big dapple-grey horse came trotting from the back of the house. Ivushkin assumed the terrain stretched behind the house, and that probably there was a barn somewhere.

Ivushkin also realised Jäger had bought the house and had brought the Percheron and Ivushkin to live there. Ivushkin was shocked at that, because he had never imagined himself… living with Jäger… somewhere that was not Katrine’s farm. Not even when they lied in each other’s arms did Ivushkin think about it. He had always assumed that, once he left the farm, it would be to go back home.

Ivushkin was so stunned that, when Jäger held his hand and pulled him inside the house excitedly, Ivushkin didn’t pay much attention to the tour, too busy processing Jäger’s behaviour – it was an unforeseen turn in their game, and Ivushkin felt like his newly rebuilt defences had been mined and blown up.

Ivushkin felt trapped.

Ivushkin’s line of thought was broken when Jäger opened the door of a bedroom in the second floor, pointed at a large bed and called it ‘theirs’. Ivushkin merely stared, speechless, then turned his head to look at Jäger, who was smiling excitedly, proudly displaying his perfectly white teeth and small tooth-gap. He looked boyish. Innocent. Honest. His eyes were piercing, intense, scrutinizing Ivushkin with the same despair a drowning man takes in a breath. Some of his scars were stretched and wide, others were wrinkled and narrow, all fealty lost.

Ivushkin smiled back, easing into the conclusion that their shared bed – _their_ house - was merely a new battlefield. He just needed to adapt, to be acquainted with Jäger’s new strategy and tactics, study Jäger again, and then he could make a counter-offensive. He then frowned in curiosity as Jäger produced his wallet from a pocket of his trousers and returned it – Ivushkin immediately inspected it… and found Swiss papers. He gaped and looked up at Jäger, caught off guard again, and watched as Jäger beamed and tilted his head up proudly. Ivushkin couldn’t help but laugh and looked around, finally noticing the place:

“I take it being a colonel was profitable,” he commented. Jäger just grinned his self-important smile. “But that won’t last forever.”

Jäger’s self-important smile turned into his smug, all-knowing smirk. He held Ivushkin’s hand again and led him to the ground-floor of the house, to show him the large garage building that could be accessed by the kitchen. Ivushkin was surprised to find a small workshop, and he looked questioningly at Jäger. The German looked like he would explode of self-importance.

* * *

 

Ivushkin found that sharing a roof, alone with Jäger, was surprisingly effortless. Maybe because they were already familiar with each other, maybe because it wasn’t difficult at all to deal with Jäger - despite how capricious he could be most times.

Ivushkin liked the routine they had: working in the workshop during the week and rest in the weekend. They fixed vehicles and small electronic devices, and Ivushkin was glad he was finally making money. Ivushkin was the one who spent more time in the workshop, since Jäger had to take care of the horse and did most things around the house.

It took some weeks, until finally Katrine phoned to check on them. Sometimes they visited her on Sundays, and Ivushkin was secretly relieved that Jäger was the one to always drive the Mercedes: it had been years since Ivushkin had last driven, and he didn’t want to give Jäger the satisfaction of messing up.

Their past had been confined to the studio on the second floor and had no permission to leave: sometimes Jäger would disappear in the studio for an hour or two, usually in the weekends; Ivushkin had spied at the door once and had learned Jäger simply stayed there listening to his records with military marches. It had upset Ivushkin at first, because he had _nothing Russian_ with him, but eventually Ivushkin was merely thankful that Jäger kept that part of his life private.

Ivushkin’s strategy had changed from offensive to defensive, and he concerned himself with keeping up with Jäger’s weaponry and doctrine rather than surpassing him. Ivushkin believed armed peace worked for them just as well as open hostility. He didn’t say it aloud, but he sometimes feared he would have trouble keeping up, and would eventually be outpowered and defeated once and for all. They both had become bolder since leaving the farm, but Jäger was the cheekiest, to the point that all the innovations were _his_ – Ivushkin merely hurried to follow him and, having learned from Jäger, improve his innovations.

It worked just like warfare, and they were content.

There were also quiet moments between them, when they stood in the small balcony in their bedroom watching the Percheron horse prancing around in its pasture or running in and out of its small stable, Jäger smoking his pipe and chewing absently at the mouthpiece and Ivushkin snacking fruit. But most quiet moments were after dinner, while they sat together on the couch to read, or to play a game, or to simply stay there quietly, and one of them – usually Jäger – would lie down with his head on the other’s legs, and have his hair played with.

Ivushkin started to notice that, in those moments, Jäger looked at him in a different way. His eyes were as intense as always, but there was _something_ in them and in the way the corners of his lips were tugged up, that alerted Ivushkin that _something_ was changing. It made Ivushkin warm inside, but also made his gut tighten in anticipation because there were still unresolved matters between them… and Ivushkin wouldn’t simply let Jäger pull him into the abyss, not like that.

But, as was usual between them, they didn’t talk about it.

Their routine also included waking up before dawn to make some exercise before a day’s work. Ivushkin figured this was the most competitive part of their shared living – and he fully admitted it was _him_ bringing in the competitiveness: Ivushkin’s physique had been very damaged during his time in captivity, and even though that, when Jäger had first taken him from prison and had since then kept him well fed and free from abuse, Ivushkin’s body never quite recovered. Ivushkin had regained his normal weight, but his muscles, that had been decently worked out during his time in the officers’ school, had lost most of their definition. The fact that he hadn’t been able to properly exercise during the whole Summer because of his injured ankle didn’t help. So, Ivushkin truly pushed himself to the limit during push-ups and sit-ups and squats, but he was always left with the annoying feeling that Jäger, who stopped the moment Ivushkin could no longer proceed, would still be able to go on. Ivushkin didn’t know what Jäger meant by doing that.

Ivushkin admitted to himself he was jealous of Jäger, whose athletic body was in good shape and whose muscles were defined. Yet, what truly angered him was that Jäger was ten years older, yet it simply didn’t show. Ivushkin felt a loser every morning, but he would not say it aloud.

On the other hand, he did enjoy admiring and touching Jäger.

The toughest part of exercising was running. The first time Ivushkin and Jäger had gone for a run around their property, followed by the curious Percheron horse, Ivushkin had started to feel a certain discomfort in his recently-healed ankle. He had proceeded stubbornly, but ten minutes into it and he had been running with a limp. Ivushkin would have still proceeded, out of pride, if Jäger hadn’t stopped – and so Ivushkin had stopped as well, only to be scolded:

“Watch your ankle, Ivushkin!” From that day on, Ivushkin grudgingly respected his own limits and would retreat into the house after running for about five minutes. Jäger usually returned half an hour later.

Every morning, Ivushkin would be left with a toxic mixture of jealousy, anger and resentment that fortunately didn’t last long.

* * *

 

One night, Ivushkin heard a loud thud next to him. Half-asleep, he turned around and groped the mattress in search of Jäger to ask him what had happened… but the mattress was empty. Ivushkin woke up immediately, switched on the bedside lamp and looked around the bedroom, confused – then noticed Jäger crawling back to bed, looking absolutely stunned:

“Did you fell?” Ivushkin asked, baffled, and didn’t even fight back a mocking smile. Their bed was sufficiently large for them to sprawl comfortably, and the thought of Jäger rolling off it was hilarious.

Ivushkin’s smile died, however, at how _confused_ Jäger looked. The German didn’t answer immediately; instead, he looked around the bedroom, lied under the blankets again, and reached out for Ivushkin while trying to put on a nonchalant face.

Yet Jäger retreated into a defensive position too late: Ivushkin frowned:

“Were you falling, Klaus?” Ivushkin asked instead. He dreamt about it sometimes, of watching Jäger fall into the water with his tank. Ivushkin waited patiently for Jäger to accommodate himself in his arms, then watched as Jäger, judging by the slight frown and the tensing and relaxing of his jaw, debated internally with himself. In the end, Jäger shrugged and burrowed his head in the crook of Ivushkin’s neck – Ivushkin had learned that was Jäger’s favourite hiding place:

“I was. It happens, sometimes,” Jäger replied, then started to nibble Ivushkin’s neck with his lips. Ivushkin rolled his eyes at that:

“But you’ve never fallen off the bed, before…”

“You weren’t holding me properly, Ivushkin!” Jäger sucked a soft kiss on Ivushkin’s neck, then went quiet. Ivushkin ran his fingers through Jäger’s hair, absently, then reached out to switch off the bedside lamp. For a while, he was awake in the dark, thinking about Jäger’s words.

Ivushkin was starting to learn Jäger _told him_ a lot of things: dissimulated, camouflaged, strategical things that Ivushkin didn’t always understand. Ivushkin had mixed feelings about it: suspicion, confusion, annoyance… and a gnawing sense of fear that Jäger might be preparing a blow Ivushkin wasn’t ready for. What exactly could be that blow, Ivushkin wasn’t sure either – based at the speed Jäger moved, and at his readiness to fire…

Ivushkin had no doubts Jäger was a brilliant strategist and tactician, and he knew Jäger could be very patient. But Ivushkin also knew he was _the most patient_ of the two.

With a sigh, he pushed all thoughts aside, tightened his embrace around Jäger and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

Ivushkin was sitting alone in the living room. Jäger had gone to the studio some time ago and Ivushkin had seized the opportunity to read a little in the newspaper – reading in the Latin alphabet was still a problem for him, and by no means he could read in Fraktur. Yet, just as Ivushkin was making progress through the difficult, big words, Jäger appeared with a chess board. Ivushkin didn’t think twice and immediately cast the newspaper aside. Who played white and who played black was decided by flipping a coin, which gave Jäger the opportunity to start off with the white pieces.

For some time they played quietly, both sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Ivushkin liked chess, and he was glad he had found such a good opponent in Jäger. As in everything in their lives, for a moment each of them seemed to have the upper hand, only to be immediately overpowered by the other. Until (how ironic) Ivushkin began to constantly have the advantage.

And Ivushkin was so focused in the game that, at first, he didn’t notice how Jäger began to trace feather-like spirals and circles with a finger on the back of his hand. When Ivushkin noticed the sparks on his skin, Jäger had crawled to him, seemingly still interested in the game and watching the board from Ivushkin’s side, like he was planning his next move – yet, Jäger’s hand was already wandering Ivushkin’s thigh, and out of the corner of his eye Ivushkin noticed Jäger lying down on his stomach. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes and moved his piece:

“You never play fair…” he complained, but did nothing to stop Jäger from unbuckling his belt, then unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. All the while Jäger kept looking at the game, and he too moved a piece – a pawn, so seemingly random Ivushkin was confused and frowned thoughtfully, wondering what Jäger wanted to achieve with that move. Yet, Ivushkin’s concentration began to shatter the moment he felt Jäger take him in his mouth.

When Jäger had first done it to him, Ivushkin had thought it was a display of submission. He had been wrong.

Still, Ivushkin believed he still had some control on the situation:

“It’s your turn,” Ivushkin said, keeping his voice firm, but Jäger didn’t let go of him while moving another, random pawn. Ivushkin huffed in annoyance at the new incomprehensible move and at the increasing pleasure throughout his body. Ivushkin stubbornly tried to focus in the game, until he took in a sharp breath. “Jäger! _Teeth!!_ ” Ivushkin looked down immediately, flushed, watching as Jäger’s head kept bobbing at a leisurely pace.

Ivushkin hated to feel Jäger’s teeth.

Ivushkin was thrilled every time he felt Jäger’s teeth.

The chess game had been clearly postponed. Ivushkin figured Jäger had anticipated he was going to lose: though it pleased Ivushkin, it didn’t please him as much as effectively making a check-mate:

“Don’t you think you can challenge me for chess and then leave the game unfinished…” Ivushking grunted, still looking down at Jäger’s head. Jäger stopped and looked up at him with a grin, his blue eyes almost completely hidden by blown pupils. Ivushkin felt a shiver down his spine.

Speechlessly, they stood up, collected the board and the pieces and headed upstairs to their bedroom. Jäger finished his offensive, and only after Ivushkin had retaliated did they set the game again and played.

Jäger won the first round.

Ivushkin won the second.

The third was a draw, and they no longer had what it took to play a winning game. Ivushkin huffed and lied on his side, cradled a pillow under his head as he felt incredibly lazy and watched over his shoulder as Jäger set the board and pieces on his bedside table and then scooted over to him, then spooned Ivushkin from behind and peppered his shoulders with kisses. Ivushkin’s eyes fluttered closed as he enjoyed Jäger’s attention.

“I liked you the moment you tricked me into believing you’d help me with the training,” Jäger whispered in Ivushkin’s ear. Ivushkin snorted at that:

“You know my intention had always been escaping, right? Finding the shells _you_ failed to remove just made it easier,” he teased, glancing over his shoulder. Jäger was looking at him with interest:

“I took you from that prison. I had you given medical care, and food, and water, and a bath, and a new uniform. I made you useful again,” Jäger enumerated slowly, raising both eyebrows for emphasis and tilting his head down, like he was encouraging a dumb child to reach an important conclusion. The gesture gave Jäger away, and Ivushkin smirked at that:

“You do realise a prisoner never likes his captor,” Ivushkin stated, and grinned wider at how Jäger looked so disappointed and… tense. That intrigued Ivushkin, but Jäger proceeded to trail his neck and back with kisses.

* * *

 

Ivushkin watched, from inside the workshop, as the snow fell gently outside. The sky was of a bright grey and the landscape was being coated slowly in white. But the air wasn’t as chilly as in Russia, and the snow wasn’t as thick… _and the cold wasn’t as cold_. Ivushkin sighed and looked back at the engine he was fixing, frowning at a sudden, overwhelming homesickness.

Ivushkin helped to pay the bills and food, but he was successfully saving money that he intended to use to go to Russia to meet his mother… and then return, save more money and repeat the journey. Ivushkin didn’t mind sharing a living with Jäger, as long as he could be with his own family and among his people for a while. However, Ivushkin didn’t have enough savings yet. He looked outside again, to the snow falling more heavily, and imagined that, by that time, Moscow would be already completely white and that his mother would be drinking hot tea and have dozens of kompot jars in the cabinet:

“You should be wearing a warmer sweater,” Jäger’s voice startled Ivushkin, who turned around abruptly to look at the German, standing on the doorway that gave access to the kitchen. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“This is a pathetic excuse of Winter…” Ivushkin complained, pointing an accusing finger at the snow outside. Jäger snorted at that and shook his head:

“Close the workshop for lunch, Ivushkin.”

For the rest of the day, Ivushkin felt the constant gnawing of homesickness. It annoyed him, but he was still able to focus on his work… and to notice Jäger was too calm and collected, dangerously so.

Later, after dinner, it was Ivushkin who lied on the couch and rested his head on Jäger’s lap. He felt tired and somewhat vulnerable due to his haunting homesickness, and he had learned to appreciate the comfort Jäger could give him. For a while, the only sound in the living room was Jäger’s sucking at the mouthpiece of his pipe while he stirred Ivushkin’s hair. A snowstorm had started outside, but there was a happy fire in the fireplace and the heating was on in the upper floor:

“Christmas is in two weeks,” Jäger sighed as he started to play with Ivushkin’s ear. His voice sounded… schooled into indifference. “Kattie doesn’t want us around for Christmas, she doesn’t want me to give her or my nephews anything and I don’t know what to give you.”

“Christmas is in January…” Ivushkin grunted in response. Jäger normally had perfect timing, but he had failed miserably with that topic. The homesickness knotted Ivushkin’s stomach, but he found Jäger’s misery distracting enough – and extremely tempting. “When you say ‘us’, you actually mean ‘you’, right?”

Jäger ignored that, and Ivushkin watched as his face assumed a thoughtful expression:

“I don’t know what to give you,” he repeated, holding his pipe firmly between his teeth. Ivushkin had no idea why Jäger seemed more concerned in making a point of that, than complaining about how his twin didn’t want him to spend Christmas with her. Ivushkin figured Jäger was either hurt by Katrine’s decision and hiding to lick his wounds, or he was up to something. Both options were equally viable.

“Company will do,” Ivushkin replied, then raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what to give you, either,” He hadn’t even thought about it, and deep down felt… bad:

“I thought Russians didn’t have Christmas,” Jäger teased, having seemingly recovered. He smirked at Ivushkin, who narrowed his eyes:

“It’s… a private celebration. Among family,” He crossed his arms, determined to return the stab. “But now Germans have Christmas back, right?”

For a moment, Jäger glared down at Ivushkin with a murderous glint in his eyes. Ivushkin understood he had stabbed too deep, and considered whether he should apologise or see what Jäger would say, first.

The German looked away from him:

“It _was_ the Julfest, Ivushkin. The Winter Solstice,” Jäger explained in a tight voice, and Ivushkin knew for sure that was a wound that would take a long time to heal, even though it looked scarred on the surface. “I just called it a name you’d recognise.”

“I think that’s why Katrine doesn’t want you around,” Ivushkin replied, both in an attempt at getting things to the banter side and not interested in the least on why the Nazis had renamed Christmas – and why fools like Jäger had fallen for it.

Jäger seemed to pout at that and kept sucking insistently at his pipe. Ivushkin studied Jäger’s set jaw, distant eyes and firmly secured pipe for a moment, interested, until he concluded he had pushed the subject too far – and had been quite lucky at how Jäger had responded. Ivushkin decided not to linger on thoughts of why Jäger hadn’t presented him with one of his moods and thought about something else instead. He knew Jäger loved his sister, and he also knew her despise affected him. Ivushkin didn’t know how much time Jäger had spent with his family during the war, but he assumed the German must have been… happy… with the thought that he would be part of it that year.

Ivushkin chuckled at the irony of how they were both unable to spend the holiday with their families: Jäger, certainly because of something he had done and that Katrine had considered tasteless, and Ivushkin because he was away from home. Yet, Ivushkin realised that _Jäger_ made being away from home… bearable. He raised his hand and tried to pry the pipe from Jäger’s mouth, just to get his attention – which he eventually got, as Jäger stared down daggers at him:

“Then, it’s just the two of us,” Like their battles. “Your company is enough.”

Jäger’s face softened.

* * *

 

Two days before Christmas, Jäger returned into the house from his morning run with a frown on his face and walking with a limp. Ivushkin, preparing breakfast, felt both concerned and tempted to tease Jäger about it, but he kept quiet, and Jäger made no comment about it either.

The night before Christmas, Ivushkin startled awaken as Jäger sprang away from him with a desperate gasp. Confused and alarmed, Ivushkin groped blindly for the bedside lamp, but when he switched it on Jäger was already staggering out of the bedroom. Like he hadn’t been sleeping deeply just seconds before, Ivushkin jumped to his feet and followed Jäger into the corridor, to see him disappearing into the bathroom at the end of the corridor:

“Klaus?” he called, striding towards the bathroom. As he approached, he heard Jäger throw up and immediately blamed the sausages and cabbage they had had for dinner – though most of their meals consisted of sausages and cabbage…

Ivushkin heard Jäger throw up again, and he stopped near the door, considering whether he should open it and walk in or let Jäger recover a little dignity first.

Only when Ivushkin heard running water, did he walk in. He found Jäger bent over the sink, ashen and trembling as he washed his face and mouth. The German didn’t look up at him immediately, but when he did, Ivushkin frowned as Jäger looked like he had seen a ghost. Ivushkin immediately understood he must have had a nightmare, and he approached the German carefully and rested a hand on his shoulder, then gave it a gentle squeeze:

“Go back to bed, I’ll make you tea,” Ivushkin said in a quiet tone. Jäger nodded, slowly, then dried his face to the towel and followed Ivushkin out of the bathroom.

When Ivushkin returned to their bedroom with a steamy cup of tea, he found Jäger curled under the blankets, looking nowhere in particular with a distant expression. Ivushkin put down the tea on his bedside table and crawled into his half of the bed, until he approached Jäger and helped him into a sitting position. He noticed how Jäger shivered, and assumed he was still shaken from throwing up. Wordlessly, Ivushkin handed him the cup and Jäger took a small sip, flinching slightly at how hot the tea was.

Ivushkin studied Jäger’s colourless face attentively: his thin lips were pressed tightly together; there were dark rings under his eyes, that had lost their stunning and piercing intensity; there were lines across his face that were not scars… and that Ivushkin had never seen before.

Jäger sipped at his tea again:

“What happened, Klaus?” Ivushkin asked quietly. Jäger took another sip at the tea:

“I couldn’t… I was sinking,” he explained in an equally quiet voice. Ivushkin liked Jäger’s voice: it wasn’t too deep and it wasn’t monotonous, as he had heard it raise powerfully to bark orders and drop to erotic whispers. Even the way Jäger spoke German wasn’t as harsh and guttural as Ivushkin had heard during most of his imprisonment. But there was something… off… about Jäger’s voice. Like he was wounded and knew he was fragile, endangered and unable to defend himself. Yet Ivushkin doubted there would ever be a time that Jäger _could not defend himself_ :

“After you fell?” Ivushkin asked. He still dreamed about it, sometimes. Watching Jäger and his tank fall into the water. It was unpleasant, but the feeling never lingered – Ivushkin just didn’t know why it was unpleasant: because it had marked the beginning of more imprisonment, or because he cared for Jäger and the thought of him dead was… strange:

“My vision went black for a moment,” Jäger shared in the same quiet tone. He didn’t look at Ivushkin and kept sipping at his tea. “I felt that I was… sinking. Slowly. Like there was something pulling me down. When I needed to breathe, that was when I could see again, and I swam to the surface,” Jäger paused and moistened his lips. Ivushkin had never seen him do that before. “But this time… no matter how hard I tried… I couldn’t reach the surface, and I couldn’t breathe, and everything hurt again.”

Ivushkin had never asked Jäger about the extent of his injuries. He had been curious about that, actually. Curious to know _how_ Jäger hadn’t died, _how_ he had returned to his private quarters only three days after that fall, _how_ he had proceeded to live like nothing had happened.

Jäger finished the tea, placed the cup on his bedside table and lied down again, but before Jäger could reach out for Ivushkin, it was Ivushkin who lied close to him and cradled Jäger against his chest.

Outside in the village, the church bells rang the hour.

“One of my men said you were the devil, when we saw you get out of the water,” Ivushkin shared, feeling a sudden, overwhelming warmth at how Jäger burrowed his head against his chest. Ivushkin liked when Jäger needed him for pleasure… but he figured he liked it more when Jäger needed him for comfort and reassurance.

“I might be!” Jäger chuckled at that and looked up at Ivushkin, all intensity back to his eyes. “I walked away with a concussion, a broken sternum, broken and cracked ribs, a broken collarbone on the left, my left arm broken in two different places, a sprained ankle and a broken  shin and knee cap on my right leg,” Jäger enumerated nonchalantly, then paused, unbuttoned the first two buttons of Ivushkin’s pyjama’s shirt and started to nibble at the exposed skin with his lips. “But that didn’t stop me from getting to you, again,” The German sounded very proud of himself. Ivushkin didn’t find the courage to correct him by reminding that it had been _him_ going down to the riverbank to check on Jäger:

“That’s why you were walking with a limp the other day,” Ivushkin concluded, finding the amount of injury that Jäger had sustained _ridiculously few_ for that fall. Jäger’s nibbling hesitated, then he began to pepper Ivushkin’s neck with kisses, which Ivushkin interpreted as a diversion:

“I don’t know why it happened. It hadn’t bothered me before. Either way,” Jäger looked up at Ivushkin: his normal colour was back, his face was ageless again. “… it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Which Ivushkin translated as it being time to go back to sleep.

* * *

 

Ivushkin found Jäger’s Christmas Eve perfectly unremarkable: no decorations, no special food, no different routine. In a way, he was relieved there was nothing… Nazi… around the house. But he also felt oddly disappointed at how Jäger didn’t seem interested in celebrating with him – either the real Christmas or the Nazi corruption. However, things seemed to change in the evening, when Jäger went upstairs and returned with cakes and pastries:

“Where were you keeping that?” Ivushkin asked, surprised, though he suspected Jäger had stored them in the studio. “ _When_ did you get that??”

But Jäger just smirked his all-knowing, superior, smug smirk, then started to make dinner. While Jäger was at it, Ivushkin figured he should set the table with the other set of tableware they hadn’t used yet, then went to help Jäger.

They were silent as they prepared dinner, and remained silent as they ate. All the while Jäger carried his smirk and half-way into dinner Ivushkin started to notice how that smirk - taunting, annoying - made Jäger look like he was asking to get punched… but it also made him look ridiculous and hilarious. Ivushkin could see Jäger with that same smirk, in his uniform, convinced he had gotten things his way. Ivushkin snorted and almost spat the wine he had just drank from the glass. Across the table, Jäger raised an eyebrow – but the smirk remained, and Ivushkin lost it and burst out laughing.

That wiped off Jäger’s smirk, and it only made Ivushkin laugh harder. Ivushkin had never paid much attention to the whole of Jäger’s face: merely his stunningly intense blue eyes, his scars and the sharp arch of his thin lips. But, since they had moved in together, just the two of them, Ivushkin had started to notice other things, but only in that moment did he make conclusions about his previous observations.

Jäger’s eyes, so blue and piercing and intense, had expression of their own; but so did his mouth, large and with such thin lips; he had good features, straight and strong, and perfectly white teeth, with that small gap that was as expressive as his eyes or lips. Jäger’s face was boyish and extremely expressive in general, and Ivushkin liked it.

Jäger’s face was also handsome.

 _Jäger_ was handsome.

Ivushkin’s laughter calmed into a chuckle, and he proceeded to eat under Jäger’s scrutinizing gaze:

“You look dumb when you smirk like that,” Ivushkin eventually said. Jäger narrowed his eyes, but said nothing – merely made a face between a petulant pout and another all-knowing smirk. Ivushkin had to look down at his dish, or he would burst out laughing again.

Jäger’s intentions became evident when he hoarded all the cakes and pastries on his side of the table, claiming that Ivushkin deserved nothing for having made fun of his face. Ivushkin understood Jäger was feeling playful, and decided to play along too by asking how he could redeem himself.

His first task was to help washing the dishes.

His second task was to kiss Jäger.

Judging by the knowing, playful smirk that danced for the whole time in Jäger’s lips, the German was having a lot of fun. Ivushkin presumed he was plotting something, and the only way to find out what was by kissing him. Which Ivushkin did, after cupping his face with both hands.

Ivushkin intended it to be a gentle, chaste kiss. He hadn’t eaten anything sweet since they had left Katrine’s farm and had his goals set on a pastry.

But then Jäger pulled him close and held him tightly, and tilted his head to the side, and sucked gently at Ivushkin’s lips before teasing them with his tongue. Suddenly, the cakes and pastries didn’t seem as appealing as before, and Ivushkin parted his lips to allow Jäger to kiss him more deeply, thoroughly, passionately… yet slowly and gently. Ivushkin felt warm and cosy, and sighed as he wrapped his arms around Jäger’s shoulders. They didn’t kiss each other often – mostly when they wanted pleasure, but normally they walked up to each other without bothering to kiss first. So, the fact that they were simply standing there and taking so much time in a kiss was new. Thrilling. It made Ivushkin’s head light. There was something in that kiss besides wanting, and needing, and passion, and playfulness, and eagerness. Something that made Ivushkin want to surrender to Jäger once and for all. Something that made Ivushkin want to be taken prisoner and kept in chains for the rest of his life.

The phone rang, but they didn’t pay attention to it. Too busy – Jäger commanding the offensive, Ivushkin keeping up with him as he was encircled and trapped and outnumbered and left without ammunition or supplies. Communications were cut, roads were blocked – but there was always the chance of going off road, Ivushkin had done that once.

He broke the kiss and stared into Jäger’s eyes. His blue eyes were hidden behind blown pupils and they seemed even more intense. Ivushkin might as well have looked the devil in the eye, and he looked away in an attempt at resisting. He gasped and his eyes fluttered closed as Jäger attacked his jaw, sucking the skin lightly and teasing it with his teeth and tongue. Ivushkin raised a hand to run his fingers through Jäger’s head, all the while giving him more access. The phone was still ringing, unnoticed.

Jäger was an excellent lover.

Jäger was an all-consuming fire.

* * *

 

The next morning Ivushkin woke up to the feeling of Jäger crawling under the blankets and spooning him from behind. He felt… lazy. Cosy and lazy. Ivushkin didn’t bother to immediately open his eyes, but he turned to lie on his back:

“What time is it…?” he asked, refraining right on time from asking why Jäger had left their bed:

“Eight,” Jäger whispered in Ivushkin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Ivushkin hummed: so, Jäger had already exercised and taken care of the horse. Ivushkin felt both betrayed for having been left behind in bed and grateful that Jäger had allowed him to sleep a bit longer. Not that Ivushkin felt tired.

He merely felt… _lazy_. Ivushkin didn’t usually feel lazy, not in the morning. He would feel lazy a few times in the evening, after spending a quiet – or not so quiet - moment with Jäger. He cracked one eye open when he felt Jäger starting to trace spiralling patterns on his chest, at the end of one of his scars. He studied Jäger’s pleased smile for a moment, then yawned and stretched:

“It’s late, why did you come back to bed?” he asked. Ivushkin liked their rigorous routine. It kept them disciplined, and Ivushkin, as a former junior lieutenant, liked discipline – and he assumed that Jäger, who had formerly outranked him, would be even more pleased about the maintenance of discipline. Ivushkin pushed himself to a sitting position, and frowned at how Jäger’s smile immediately dropped from his face:

“Always in a hurry to run from me, Nikolai…” Jäger muttered, pushing his lips out in a sulky pout that Ivushkin found irresistible and kissed immediately. That earned him a content hum from Jäger, and Ivushkin understood why Jäger had come back to join him in bed instead of simply waking him up. Ivushkin smiled and appeased Jäger with a soft brush of fingers across the scarred half of his face. Jäger smiled one of his crazed, dangerous smiles.

Ivushkin couldn’t remember ever having breakfast at ten in the morning. It felt almost sinful eating those eggs with bacon just two hours away from lunch. On the other hand, it had been time well spent – Jäger had a permanent grin on his face, all-knowing and superior, but Ivushkin already knew the German was no graceful winner.

The phone rang in the living room, yet Jäger made no motion to stand up from the kitchen table and go answer the phone. Ivushkin watched and shook his head in disbelief as Jäger replaced his grin with a petulant pout:

“You’re unbelievable,” he complained, and stood up to go answer the phone. The little table with the phone was strategically placed near the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, so that it could be heard from and in both rooms. Casting his best disapproving look at Jäger, Ivushkin picked up the phone – with no surprise, it was Katrine. The surprise consisted on the invitation for lunch with her and her family. Ivushkin told Katrine he would call back with an answer, sensing that Jäger wouldn’t say anything conclusive just then, and hung up. Squaring his shoulders, he walked back into the kitchen, where Jäger had already finished breakfast but was still sitting, waiting for Ivushkin to finish:

“Katrine invited us to have lunch with her, at one,” Ivushkin explained. Jäger assumed a thoughtful expression, and for once Ivushkin was almost certain it wasn’t for show: he knew Jäger loved his sister, but he also understood Jäger would grow tired of being constantly pushed away. Jäger was proud and vengeful, and Ivushkin wouldn’t be surprised if he took a petty revenge on his sister just by declining the invitation:

“Schimmel eats at mid-day…” Jäger muttered, mostly to himself, then looked at Ivushkin. “Do you want to go?”

Ivushkin raised both eyebrows:

“Do you want to go?”

“Do _you_ , Nikolai?” Jäger too raised his eyebrows.

Ivushkin let out a huff and stared at Jäger like the German was a lost case. Ivushkin couldn’t tell if Jäger was indeed throwing a tantrum, or if he truly didn’t know if he should accept his sister’s invitation after being told he wasn’t wanted around, or if he even would take Ivushkin’s decision in consideration. Being unable to decipher and predict Jäger always made Ivushkin nervous, and he sighed:

“I do,” he finally replied. It didn’t matter to him where and with whom to lunch, but he knew it mattered to Jäger.

* * *

 

The night after Christmas, Ivushkin startled awake as Jäger sat up abruptly with a gasp. While Ivushkin groped around to find the bedside lamp, he noticed that the German didn’t bolt off the bed, which meant he wasn’t going to throw up – something Ivushkin was immensely relieved for, but when he finally switched on the light and turned around to look at Jäger, he found him ashen and shaking.

Ivushkin didn’t like that.

Ivushkin didn’t like to see Jäger so… so broken, even though it didn’t last for long.

Ivushkin hated that he couldn’t do anything to prevent it, and he found that holding Jäger close and sooth him wasn’t sufficient – no matter how much Jäger seemed truly relieved to have Ivushkin there to comfort him.

It happened again two nights before New Year’s Eve:

“Have you told Katrine about this?” Ivushkin asked, his face burrowed on Jäger’s hair as he held him against his chest. However, Ivushkin felt like he knew the answer, and his suspicions were confirmed the minute Jäger muttered that Katrine didn’t need to know that. The nightmare was always the same: Jäger was unable to surface, though Jäger, when telling Ivushkin about it, would call it ‘go back’. But Ivushkin didn’t pay much attention to that.

* * *

 

“Kattie’s birthday is in January,” Jäger informed as he helped Ivushkin change a particularly stubborn tyre that refused to come off. Ivushkin couldn’t help but chuckle at the last-minute announcement that _Jäger’s_ birthday was in January:

“My birthday is in January,” Ivushkin replied, and out of the corner of his eye noticed how Jäger went still, seemingly forgotten about the task at hand, and merely stared at him with such intensity that Ivushkin felt prodded and had to look up to meet Jäger’s gaze. “What?”

“Namesakes, both born in January… it’s fitting!” Jäger commented with a radiant, victorious smile that made Ivushkin feel warm inside. Ivushkin never failed to be amazed at how genuinely fascinated Jäger was about those peculiarities between them, how child-like innocent Jäger could be sometimes.

They spent New Year’s Eve by themselves, but went to have lunch with Katrine in New Year’s Day.

And, since Ivushkin was helping Katrine and Otto lift the table while Jäger played with his nephews outside, Ivushkin thought he could ask Katrine if she knew how to fix Jäger. Yet, as he was about to ask her, he refrained himself. He didn’t know what Otto knew about him and Jäger, and though it was unlikely that Katrine had commented anything, Otto might have assumed. If Ivushkin brought up _Jäger’s nightmare_ , it could help to connect the dots, because Ivushkin doubted someone would take it as a simple, innocent concern from a house-mate that slept in a separate bedroom. Ivushkin might as well be overthinking, yet he still decided to stall and wait until Otto left the kitchen. However, when it was just him and Katrine, Ivushkin still found it rather embarrassing and couldn’t look her in the eye:

“Jäger has been having nightmares,” he said quietly, and found the pink towel on the table extremely entertaining. He kept his eyes on the towel as he felt Katrine’s intense gaze on him. “It’s not every night, and he just threw up once. Other than that, he’s normal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Katrine approaching him. He sighed, mustering courage, and finally looked up at her. She didn’t seem much concerned, almost like she doubted something could torment her twin:

“Could be combat stress reaction, nonetheless,” she said calmly. “I’d suggest a psychiatrist, but I don’t think Klaus will want that,” Ivushkin looked down at the towel again:

“He dreams of falling in the water and sinking,” That earned him a thoughtful hum from Katrine, but before any of them could say anything else Jäger ran in by the back door and closed it again. He had a huge, playful grin on his face and there was snow all over his clothes – Ivushkin supposed he should be playing seek-and-hide with his nephews - but his expression changed slowly as he observed Katrine and Ivushkin. Ivushkin wondered if he had somehow looked guilty.

Jäger pushed himself away from the door and walked out of the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to Ivushkin:

“Ivushkin, a word,” It was a very clear command, one Ivushkin felt he shouldn’t disobey. He followed Jäger out of the kitchen, and across the corridor towards the stairs. Jäger climbed the first step, then turned around to look at Ivushkin. Ivushkin, however, would not give Jäger the satisfaction to scold him from above and climbed that one step too.

For a moment, they merely stared at each other. Jäger’s face was perfectly blank, but a thousand emotions stormed his eyes. Ivushkin tried to decipher them, but they were too many, all moving around too quickly. The little tornado of chaotic energy that was Jäger seemed to increase in might, and Jäger’s chest expanded in accordance:

“I told you Kattie didn’t need to know,” Jäger said slowly in a low tone. Ivushkin clenched his jaw. “Why don’t you ever do what I ask of you, Ivushkin?”

Ivushkin chose to ignore the full message of that last question. He considered his options: be scolded in silence and have to deal with Jäger in a bad mood for the rest of the day, or give Jäger the honest, good reason why he had brought up to Katrine that he was still sleeping with her brother. Being honest would probably disarm Jäger completely, and that would be for the best. Ivushkin didn’t feel like fighting him in such terms:

“Do you think I like to see you like that?” he replied, equally slowly and in an equally low tone. His heart leaped and Ivushkin, uncomfortable, shifted his weight from one leg to the other, watching as Jäger first widened his eyes, then frowned. “And be unable to stop it? I don’t!” Ivushkin paused. Jäger’s eyes moved to gaze at Ivushkin’s lips and he was back to be being a little tornado of chaotic energy. “I care for you.”

Ivushkin felt extremely vulnerable after the words were out. Like he had just fired his last shell, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew there was still an enemy tank lurking somewhere.

Ivushkin realised _he_ had disarmed _himself_.

Yet, Jäger seemed to have been successfully appeased, though Ivushkin suspected that Jäger would still grace him with a tantrum. The German went down the first step and began to walk away, then set out to continue to play with his nephews.

They didn’t talk about that moment in the stairs for the rest of the day. Ivushkin assumed they never would.

* * *

 

As Ivushkin’s birthday approached, his homesickness increased. He tried not to think about his birthday – he had successfully done so while imprisoned, but the knowledge that he shared the month with Jäger somehow made his own birthday impossible to ignore. It would be yet another year away from home, another year unable to celebrate with his mother. Ivushkin wondered if she would light up a candle for him in his birthday, and the thought of her, alone in the house and dressed in black, mourning a son that was alive and well, made him so furious and desperate his eyes teared up at times. Ivushkin didn’t want his feelings to show, but he didn’t have the usual patience he had for Jäger, with all his moods and insatiable needs.

On the morning of his birthday, Ivushkin felt Jäger stand up from the bed and almost didn’t hear him walking out of the bedroom. Ivushkin gave no importance to that, but he heard Jäger walk in again shortly after, and felt him crawl into bed and approach him. Ivushkin clenched his jaw and tensed up, guessing he would have to grunt at Jäger for the umpteenth time _he was not in the mood_. Yet, Jäger just left in front of Ivushkin a toy tank with a red bow around the canon.

Ivushkin was so shocked that, for a moment, his mind went completely blank as he stared at the tank. It was a German model, and Ivushkin assumed that Jäger, during one of his rides on the Percheron horse, probably went to the village, bought it and then kept it in the studio.

Ivushkin burst out laughing, and suddenly being away from home didn’t matter that much. It was bearable. He didn’t know why he was laughing, nor where that sudden happiness had come from. He grabbed the tank, still laughing, and turned around to look at Jäger.

Jäger was staring at him with a curious expression, and his head was tilted down slightly. Ivushkin’s laughter calmed into a chuckle, until he was left smiling widely at Jäger, who looked down and shrugged:

“I’m not good at giving,” he said, and only in that moment did Ivushkin realise that, for the last weeks, Jäger had been incredibly patient with him: Jäger had left Ivushkin to himself whenever Ivushkin didn’t reply his incessant questions about why he was so quiet, Jäger hadn’t insisted stubbornly every time Ivushkin had pushed him away… and he hadn’t lashed out on Ivushkin.

Ivushkin’s smile died.

Jäger was good at giving.

Ivushkin twisted slightly to leave the toy tank on his bedside table, then climbed atop of Jäger and captured his lips in a longing kiss. Ivushkin felt a lot of things, all so suddenly and at the same time. It was overwhelming, and it all compelled him to throw himself in Jäger’s arms without a second thought and learn again the smell of him, and the taste of him, and the shape of him. A dim room wouldn’t do, and Ivushkin broke the kiss to scramble off the bed and stumble towards the window to yank the wood shutters open. He flinched at the sudden brightness, but turned around immediately and returned to the bed, where Jäger, looking slightly stunned but recovering quickly, had already kicked back the sheets and blankets and duvet.

Their mouths clashed together. Ivushkin let Jäger roll over him, and for once Ivushkin didn’t want to dispute control and advantage. In fact, Ivushkin didn’t want to care about anything else besides the man standing there with him, the bad decision that constantly proved to have been a good choice. All of a sudden it was Ivushkin who had endless needs, of all sorts, and with frantic movements he fought against Jäger’s pyjama to take it off. Ivushkin was usually silent and had always prided himself for every little gasp and moan he forced out of Jäger’s lips – yet in that moment he let himself voice how much he needed and appreciated Jäger. He clung to Jäger with abandon, savouring the warmth of his body and leaving teeth-marks and small bruises on Jäger’s shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes, his mind blank and focused solely in _Jäger_ : Jäger’s touch, Jäger’s lips, Jäger’s weight.

For once, it wasn’t a battle in their game.

Sometime later, Ivushkin sighed in satisfaction as Jäger rolled to the side and cradled him in his arms. Ivushkin spread his fingers over Jäger’s heart, feeling the beating and the warmth on his sweaty skin. Ivushkin looked at the large clock on the wall opposite to the bed: exercise was out of question, but since it marked roughly a quarter to seven, it meant Jäger would have to go feed the horse. Ivushkin didn’t want him to leave just yet:

“What do you want to do today?” Jäger asked cheerfully and nuzzled at Ivushkin’s face. Ivushkin closed his eyes momently and hummed, thoughtful. What to do in a Sunday? They usually stayed at home: Jäger entertained with his horse and all his memories in the studio, and Ivushkin enjoying quiet moments of reflexion in the living room. Ivushkin looked at the window, and though the day was cloudy, it wasn’t snowing:

“We haven’t explored the woods, yet. We could go after lunch,” The horse ate again at mid-day, but then wouldn’t eat until seven in the evening. Though Ivushkin didn’t feel like it, he allowed Jäger to crawl off the bed to get dressed:

“Then try not to step in a trap, this time,” Jäger teased with a smug grin, but Ivushkin chose to ignore the provocation.

Later, they were walking through the woods nearest to their property - and on the path lumberjacks used. They didn’t walk leisurely – instead, they marched side by side quickly, looking around their surroundings with trained eyes. The air was chilly around them and the snow was solid under their boots, but it still wasn’t the same as in Russia, and Ivushkin couldn’t help but be disappointed at that.

Ivushkin spent too many seconds lost in thought, and when he noticed Jäger stopping and crouching down, he wasn’t quick enough to predict the outcome and all he saw was a white round projectile coming at his face while Jäger darted off with a cackle.

* * *

 

Jäger’s birthday was just days away from Ivushkin’s and also a weekend day… and Ivushkin hadn’t thought about what to give him. Again. He had been so consumed by his homesickness he had forgotten about it.

Ivushkin felt ashamed of it and he didn’t want to look Jäger in the eye when, in the eve of his birthday, he confessed he hadn’t thought of anything to give him. But then Ivushkin’s head was tilted up, and he saw Jäger’s relaxed, charming smile, and was told his company would do.

Determined to make something right for Jäger and to prove himself he wasn’t an actual ‘lousy comrade’, Ivushkin spent a long time, before falling asleep, thinking about what to do with Jäger. Ivushkin sometimes wondered if Jäger schemed his entire interactions with Ivushkin with a week of precedence, and if that was the reason why he sometimes looked so lost whenever Ivushkin acted or said something in a way Jäger clearly hadn’t predicted. Usually, it brought Ivushkin a great deal of satisfaction to catch Jäger so off guard, yet as he lied in the dark, awake, with his nose burrowed on Jäger’s hair and an arm draped around his shoulders, Ivushkin realised just how important was planning and things going according to plan.

Which he already knew, throughout his studies at the officers school and his remarkably short career as tank commander.

He just hadn’t given much thought on how important it was too, when dealing with… certain… people. How sometimes, mistakes with people were as disastrous as mistakes in the battlefield.

The game had changed, had become more intricate and harder to play.

When Ivushkin finally thought of something, he allowed himself to fall asleep, only to wake up with Jäger nuzzling at his nose.

Ivushkin had included in his own planning that Jäger would most certainly seize control of his birthday – which, unsurprisingly, the German did. When returning from serving lunch to the horse, Jäger demanded that the two of them needed to shower, put on the only pair of decent suits they owned and get in the car.

And, sometime later, Ivushkin found himself in a small nearby city, in a cosy restaurant, battling for a piece of bread against a _pot of_ _melted cheese,_ much for Jäger’s obvious mirth. Ivushkin hadn’t planned for such humiliation, neither for the side glances some of the people gave them: because they were two men? Unlikely, there were other men in groups of two and more at other tables. Because Jäger’s scars immediately identified him as _soldier_ and his accent gave him away as _German_? Definitely. Ivushkin knew people merely stared, because Jäger’s scars were both eye-catching and dissuasive, but still Ivushkin always expected for something that would eventually result in a fight. It was… stressful, and together with the annoyance at the melted cheese that constantly kept his little piece of bread captive, Ivushkin wondered if Jäger was taking a petty revenge for all the times Ivushkin had ignored and denied him the last weeks. He looked up at Jäger, aggrieved.

Jäger had that boyish, radiant smile of his as he watched Ivushkin struggle to eat. He looked ageless and innocent. He still styled his hair the same way he did during the war, and his black suit became him well. Ivushkin pursed his lips:

“Is there a formula to keep the bread _on the fork_?” he asked, instead of accusing Jäger of wanting to starve him.

Yet Jäger merely presented Ivushkin with his all-knowing, superior grin, and he dipped a piece of bread in the cheese and ate it. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes and accepted the challenge: he left the fork aside, held the piece of bread with his fingers, dipped it in the cheese and – success! Besides, the scandalized look on Jäger’s face was priceless.

While driving to Katrine’s farm, Jäger complained hotly about how Ivushkin was embarrassing. Ivushkin, however, was very pleased, and they bickered back and forth about shameful behaviour and drama. Jäger seemed magically forgotten about it once they arrived at the farm to wish Katrine a happy birthday, and Ivushkin took the chance to observe two things: Jäger didn’t give Katrine anything, and Katrine didn’t give Jäger a piece of cake. She did give Ivushkin a generous slice, and when she wasn’t looking, Ivushkin walked up to Jäger with the intention to share – but Jäger had smirked and shaken his head, and Ivushkin presumed it was just another quarrel between the twins (with political origins, almost certainly).

When they arrived home, they changed clothes and Jäger went to tend to the horse and Ivushkin went to the kitchen to make dinner.

They had dinner in silence, like they did most times, and after doing the dishes they went upstairs to brush their teeth. Jäger looked truly content and said they could play chess or cards before going to sleep. And that made Ivushkin feel like his plan would be set to motion in a much more glorious way, now that he would contradict Jäger instead of suggesting something to occupy their free-time. Ivushkin didn’t answer right away. He brushed his teeth and left the bathroom with Jäger, and waited until the German had already gone down one step in the stairs:

“Or…” Ivushkin let it hang in the air, and when Jäger stopped and looked back at him, Ivushkin shrugged and walked slowly towards their bedroom. “… you can put on your uniform.”

Ivushkin had given that much thought. The way it had popped up in his head, the previous night, had disgusted him. He had tried to push it away, but it had lingered, like mist, with an aura of alluring mystery that Ivushkin had been unable to resist.

“What…?” Jäger asked from the stairs, softly. Ivushkin stopped and glanced over his shoulder to see Jäger staring at him and looking between lost and shocked. Ivushkin turned his face away and proceeded towards the bedroom:

“Are you going deaf from all the times I hit you, Jäger?” Ivushkin fought back a smile, extremely pleased at how Jäger was so confused. He heard Jäger run to him and then the German was standing in front of him, blocking the way.

Jäger looked extremely bewildered, and when he spoke, Ivushkin had never heard him being so cautious before:

“Nikolai… are you sure?”

Ivushkin kept his jaw set and his face blank, faking disinterest. That was… intriguing. He had counted on Jäger being immediately on board, and that reluctance… that concern… Ivushkin liked it. It told him things Jäger had probably said aloud before under some sort of disguise – and that Ivushkin had failed to understand. Ivushkin nodded and walked past Jäger. After a moment of hearing only the sound of his steps, Ivushkin heard Jäger dart away towards the studio, in the middle of the corridor.

Ivushkin walked in the room, switched on the light and went to sit at the edge of the bed, waiting. He admitted to himself he was very proud of the idea he had come up with and was glad he hadn’t discarded it. He was actually excited about it – and all because he knew _Jäger_ would like it.

Shortly after, Ivushkin heard the unmistakable sound of _boots_ on wood floor. It sounded heavier and more ominous than the new riding boots Jäger had bought to wear when riding the Percheron horse. A series of blurred – yet all too clear – memories flashed before Ivushkin’s eyes: memories of captivity, and torture, and hopelessness. Ivushkin still had nightmares sometimes, but never like Jäger’s. Ivushkin shook his head, focusing in the present, but he might as well have returned to a past that hadn’t been so long ago.

Jäger stood by the door in his uniform. Officer cap, gloves, medals and holster included. He looked straight out of Ivushkin’s memories, and Ivushkin was momently amazed at how time seemed to have ignored both Jäger and that uniform. But again, Jäger had always seemed ageless, and he took good care of his belongings. Maybe Jäger was indeed the devil.

Or, better, it just hadn’t been such an eternity ago, like it usually felt.

Ivushkin stood up from the bed as Jäger walked into the room. Ivushkin watched how Jäger still seemed reluctant, and instead of walking to him in a beeline, like he normally did, Jäger almost completely circled Ivushkin before finally approaching him.

Ivushkin was immensely pleased at that, and he finally allowed himself to smile warmly at Jäger. The German tilted his head, his blue eyes staring at Ivushkin with even more intensity than the usual. But he simply stood there, and Ivushkin realised he would need to do everything. He stepped into Jäger’s personal space and raised a hand to inspect the medal hanging on his neck:

“What is this one?” Ivushkin asked, thumbing the cold metal with interest. It was big and heavy and Ivushkin wondered who had found that comfortable to wear around the neck.

It felt good to finally allow himself to be curious about Jäger’s medals:

“Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross,” Jäger replied. His voice was rough, and Ivushkin kept thumbing at the medal. “Continuous bravery before the enemy.”

Ivushkin hummed, and touched the Iron Cross on Jäger’s pocket, above his other two medals:

“Iron Cross, first class. Excellence in commanding troops,” Ivushkin hummed again, thoroughly enjoying the way Jäger’s voice gave him away. He then touched the medal with a tank. “Tank Badge. Awarded for combat engagements,” Ivushkin hummed once more and touched the last medal, with a helmet over two crossed swords. “Wound Badge, first class, five or more times wounded.”

Upon hearing that, Ivushkin looked up to meet Jäger’s eyes. He knew all of Jäger’s scars, from the most visible and deep in his face, to the ones throughout his body that had faded into almost blending with the surrounding skin. Ivushkin nodded, taking another look at Jäger, in his uniform.

It became him well. Made him bulkier, more imposing. There was no doubt Jäger had been a good soldier. A shame he had fought on the wrong side of the war.

But Ivushkin didn’t want to linger in those thoughts, because the faces of his tank crew – and Anya – would appear in his mind, and though blurred and with little detail, Ivushkin would see their disapproving frowns and their lips moving to form the word ‘traitor’. Ivushkin wasn’t a traitor, not when he had been recaptured, not when he had been taken to Switzerland, not when he had let Jäger crawl into his bed, not when he had decided to stay with Jäger, and not when he was about to pleasure Jäger in his uniform.

None of it had to do with the war, but with _them_. And it had taken quite some time for Ivushkin to reason that way, and he didn’t want figments of his mind spoiling the plan of action he had so carefully constructed and kept secret.

He brushed his lips on Jäger’s and pulled back before the German, still being extremely cautious, could do anything. Ivushkin smirked and teased him again, and again, until Jäger grunted in annoyance, held Ivushkin’s arms and successfully captured his lips. Ivushkin let him control the kiss, humming in appreciation at how Jäger chose to go slow. Ivushkin felt Jäger drag his hands up his arms and neck to cup his face, and he felt that warmth and cosiness inside he had felt some time ago, when they had last kissed so gently and thoroughly like that.

Then Jäger started to tease Ivushkin’s lips with his teeth and with little flicks of his tongue.

Ivushkin broke the kiss, rested both hands on Jäger’s shoulders and steered him towards the bed. Jäger, whose blue eyes were hidden by blown pupils, looked again very worried and didn’t immediately sit on the bed when Ivushkin pushed him – it took a shove for Jäger to sit down:

“Nikolai…” Jäger called again in a warning, yet rough voice. Ivushkin raised an eyebrow at him, amused… but touched. Jäger had many flaws, but he wasn’t that despicable. That night in the camp flashed before his eyes, of them toasting together after Jäger explained the training. At least, he hadn’t left Ivushkin in the dark as to what the Germans would do.

No, Jäger wasn’t totally bad. Ivushkin smiled at him:

“I want it,” Ivushkin said, and he knew by experience Jäger did as he wanted.

Jäger relaxed visibly and followed Ivushkin’s every move with such an intense gaze that Ivushkin felt tickles on his skin. With deliberately slow movements, Ivushkin unbuckled Jäger’s belt, removed the Iron Cross around his neck, then unbuttoned his jacket and shirt, frowning as he gradually revealed an undershirt. That made Jäger chuckle, but it quieted into a hungry grin when Ivushkin pulled down his braces. Then, putting on a solemn face, Ivushkin unbuttoned and unzipped Jäger’s breeches. He watched, interested, as Jäger, still wearing his officer cap, tilted his head and went immediately serious.

With a content hum, Ivushkin pulled Jäger out and took him in his mouth, keeping his hands on Jäger’s thighs and thumbing the fabric of the breeches. He heard a gasp, he felt Jäger tense under his touch, and could even feel how Jäger hesitated just a little before reaching out with a gloved hand to touch his head. Ivushkin had kept his head shaved since he had been brought to Switzerland - it was practical, it prevented Jäger from taking revenge on the way Ivushkin tugged at his hair sometimes, and he liked the way Jäger’s hand felt on his scalp. Jäger’s leather glove, cold but smooth, didn’t feel bad, either.

“I’ve thought about this,” Ivushkin barely heard Jäger’s low, awe-struck whisper. Ivushkin wasn’t surprised at that.

Jäger was predictable, sometimes.

* * *

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivushkin watched how painfully bored Jäger looked every time he ironed their clothes and sheets. Ivushkin knew it was… too repetitive of an activity, and no challenges were presented at all. But, from the two of them, Jäger was the most efficient at ironing, and so Ivushkin had gladly relegated to him the task of ironing the items that he then handed over for Ivushkin to fold. They made a good team.

Suddenly, all the lights went out and only the fireplace lit in the living room kept both the living room and part of the kitchen where they stood in a soft, warm orange light. Ivushkin and Jäger exchanged a look, both very serious and quiet. Ivushkin strained his hearing, waiting to hear the unmistakable sound of German bombers and the roaring of engines in the distance. But there was only the rain tapping the glass at the window behind the kitchen counter.

Jäger was the first to laugh it off and he put the iron aside:

“Go check the village, Ivushkin,” he said, grabbed one of the sheets Ivushkin had just folded and piled and walked into the living room. Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Ivushkin made his way to the backdoor and opened it a little, just enough to peek outside without being sprayed by the rain.

Everything was dark and veiled in fog: normally, the village lights were visible in the distance, from the back of their house. Ivushkin locked the door again:

“Power blackout,” he announced and went after Jäger.

The first thing Ivushkin saw when he walked into the living room was Jäger, sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, with the sheet spread neatly under him. Jäger could have been innocence incarnate when he looked at Ivushkin from the floor and patted the empty space next to him, closer to the fireplace. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he complied. He walked to the sheet and lied down on his back, like Jäger.

For a while, both simply stared at the ceiling in companionable silence, listening to the rain outside, and to the wood crackling in the fire, and to the monotonous ticking of the clock. The warmth coming from the fire was comforting and wiped Ivushkin’s energy away – he yawned, like a lazy cat, and had no intention of leaving that spot any time soon.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivushkin noticed Jäger crossing his arms under his head:

“I liked you the moment you fooled me into believing you’d cooperate with me,” Jäger said confidently. Ivushkin frowned:

“You already said that,” And Ivushkin hadn’t understood what exactly Jäger had meant, and he was still unable to fully understand it. Next to him, Jäger huffed:

“I still liked you after you ruined my training.”

Ivushkin smirked smugly at that, but kept his eyes on the ceiling:

“You’re so naïve, sometimes…” he said, and nothing would ever make Ivushkin stop feeling proud at how he had evaded the camp. Yet, he heard Jäger shift next to him, and the next moment the German was propped up an elbow and his face was right above Ivushkin’s.

Jäger no longer seemed confident:

“Naïve,” Jäger repeated. Ivushkin raised an eyebrow, realising he had disturbed the careful balance of Jäger’s confidence. Jäger could be an unmovable rock in a moment and a feather dancing in the wind, the next. He could almost see Jäger’s brain working, analysing them, re-playing each of their interactions, trying to figure when and how Ivushkin had fooled him.

As much as Ivushkin enjoyed playing with Jäger’s over-confidence, he opted for fixing the damage and raised a hand to touch Jäger’s scarred face, first tracing the scar above Jäger’s upper lip, then the lonely one in his forehead, then the one in the corner of his eye, then the large one starting on his cheek and ending on his chin. But before he could get to the remaining crisscross of scars, Jäger lied on his back again with an indecipherable expression.

Ivushkin didn’t know if he had successfully appeased the German or if he had upset him further by dodging a verbal explanation, and for that he decided to remain quiet and wait for what Jäger would do next.

After a while in silence, Jäger spoke again:

“Was that you driving that field kitchen?” he asked. Ivushkin burst out laughing at how their lives were so… intertwined. Coincidence, of course:

“It was you in that tank,” he stated and turned his head to look at Jäger, carrying a broad smile and still chuckling. Jäger turned his head to look at him, the indecipherable expression melting into a radiant smile for a couple of seconds before turning into the most pompous of grins. It made Ivushkin burst out laughing again:

“We have some sort of destiny together, Nikolai!” Jäger exclaimed, sounding extremely pleased with himself. Ivushkin’s laughter quieted into a chuckle, and he looked at Jäger again.

Jäger, beaming under the soft orange glow the fireplace cast on him. His pupils were blown in the dim light, but there was still that stunning blue around them – and always the intensity of his gaze. Ivushkin smiled fondly at him:

“Maybe we do, Nikolaus.”

* * *

 

Jäger’s nephews had their birthdays in February and March. The weather was uncharacteristically rainy and windy, and all the three children had been slightly ill.

When Jäger first started to cough, Ivushkin pointed out he might have caught something from his nephews. He wasn’t surprised when Jäger, very offended, stated that he was a mighty adult and children’s colds were irrelevant to his health.

But Jäger also tended to ignore the rain and ride out as it pleased him.

Ivushkin didn’t like when Jäger left to ride on horseback in the rain. He knew nothing about horses, but he was certain that, if that monster of a horse slipped on the mud and fell and trapped Jäger under its massive body, that could be… dangerous. The day after witnessing such recklessness, Ivushkin told Jäger he didn’t like to see him ride off under the rain, and he suspected that, since he hadn’t told Jäger _why_ , Jäger kept doing it out of pettiness.

Jäger’s cough increased gradually and he began to sneeze and sniffle.

Eventually, one morning he lied his head on Ivushkin’s lap and grunted a complaint about a headache.

Ivushkin put the newspaper aside and rested a hand on Jäger’s forehead:

“You have fever,” he stated, considering whether to scold Jäger for riding out in the rain or mock him for having caught something from his nephews. Jäger grunted again and draped an arm across his face. Ivushkin was used to Jäger’s endless moods and needs and to having the German blatantly demanding for attention – most times, Ivushkin would lead things towards the banter field, solely for the purpose of amusing himself at how _offended_ Jäger was every time he didn’t have his caprices satisfied the way he wanted. Yet, that time, Ivushkin found the display of drama oddly endearing, and he decided he could play along and pamper Jäger a little. He started to massage his temples, and that earned him the happiest of sighs. The little sound made Ivushkin’s heart swell. “What would you do without me?” he asked, teasing.

Jäger sniffled, but by the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, Ivushkin concluded Jäger simply had the beginning of a cold and just wanted attention. Ivushkin didn’t mind playing that game and began to run his fingers through Jäger’s hair and to massage his scalp. The face Jäger made at Ivushkin’s ministrations was of pure, unbridled delight:

“I’d have to take care of myself…” Jäger replied in a somewhat hoarse voice, and he truly looked like innocence incarnate.

But, as the day went by, Ivushkin noticed how Jäger grew more and more quiet. By the time they went to sleep, Jäger’s forehead felt hotter. That night, Jäger had trouble breathing through his nose.

And, the following day, Jäger could barely stand up. Ivushkin watched how Jäger, shaking and clenching his jaw, got dressed and exited the bedroom without his usual work-out. Ivushkin knew he should offer to go tend to the horse, but he didn’t know what to do and, in all honestly, he had no wish of getting close to the monstrous Percheron. So, Ivushkin exercised by his own, dressed himself, and went down to make breakfast. He found Jäger climbing the stairs, looking pale and exhausted and overall nothing like himself. Ivushkin stopped in front of him to touch his forehead – burning hot:

“Go to bed, I’ll handle things,” Ivushkin said in a quiet tone and stepped aside, to let Jäger proceed his way upstairs.

Ivushkin made breakfast for them and took it upstairs, to share it with Jäger in bed. He noticed how Jäger was reluctant in eating and thought that he should ask Jäger if his throat was sore. Instead, he opted for saying nothing – Jäger would complain if something bothered him.

Once they had finished breakfast, Ivushkin closed the wood shutters to leave the bedroom dim and comfortable for Jäger to sleep, then he left to the workshop.

Yet Ivushkin, working alone, noticed he was having trouble focusing in his work. His thoughts were on Jäger, who just the day before had seemed to be simply in a needy mood and had gotten visibly ill overnight. Eventually, Ivushkin closed the workshop, decided to not open it again until Jäger was better.

He also decided he had to deal with the horse, and grudgingly asked Jäger for instructions. Jäger had seemed surprised at that, and had looked equally surprised when Ivushkin returned into the bedroom after doing the dishes from lunch. Ivushkin crawled to where Jäger was lying, propped up against pillows, and cradled him against his chest. Jäger was shaking with cold though feeling hot to the touch, and he was still stubbornly trying (and failing) to breathe through his nose.

Ivushkin felt oddly relieved when Jäger didn’t ask him why he wasn’t in the workshop.

They slept poorly that night – Jäger, because he had fever and couldn’t breathe the way he wanted to; Ivushkin, because he couldn’t simply ignore all the noise Jäger made and had to stand up in the middle of the night to get a soaked towel to, hopefully, lower Jäger’s fever.

The next day Jäger wasn’t better, which resulted in Ivushkin once again taking upon himself the task of tending to the horse… and then calling Katrine and ask her what to do to with Jäger.

Ivushlin felt uneasy at the thought that Jäger might have pneumonia.

Katrine arrived after lunch. Ivushkin had left the gate open for her and, when the doorbell rang, he left Jäger in bed to go downstairs and answer the door.

It was still raining, but Katrine didn’t seem annoyed for having gone by bus, with a big umbrella and a large medical case that Ivushkin presumed belonged to Otto. She seemed very amused as Ivushkin invited her in and helped her out of her long rain coat. He then led her upstairs, feeling suddenly embarrassed as he guided her into the bedroom _and to the bed_ he shared _with her brother_.

When they walked in the bedroom, Jäger, curled under the blankets, lifted just a little the soaked towel covering his face and looked at them through half-lidded eyes. He seemed surprised when Katrine sat at the edge of the bed next to him, and gently pulled the towel away from him.

Ivushkin watched in silence as she took Jäger’s temperature, and listened to his breathing with a stethoscope, and pointed a flash light at his eyes and felt around his throat. Ivushkin knew he wasn’t a doctor – or nurse -, therefore he would never be able to diagnose and treat Jäger like Katrine could, but that didn’t help to make him feel less… useless. It wasn’t like it was Ivushkin’s duty to protect Jäger from the world at all costs: Jäger was a grown man who could protect himself and look after himself…

Yet, Ivushkin remembered stepping on the hunting trap, and Jäger releasing him, and carrying him back to the farm, and cleaning the wound, and wanting to give him morphine, and carrying him to the attic, and keeping him company and bringing him food… and crawling into his bed when Ivushkin had complained about cold and pain. Ivushkin wondered if, in that seemingly distant night, Jäger had simply been looking for control, or if he had also wanted to distract Ivushkin from the pain.

Besides useless, Ivushkin felt a lousy comrade.

He stared at Jäger, with a thermometer in his mouth and looking exhausted and weak and fragile. Ivushkin was aware of Katrine playfully teasing her twin about a nasty cold, yet at the same time, he didn’t quite understand what she was saying. Slowly, he raised a hand and rested it on Jäger’s hair, damp from sweat and from the soaked towel, then ran his fingers through it. The gesture, so simple, was too intimate, but Ivushkin didn’t care that Katrine was looking, and even Jäger, judging by how he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, seemed to appreciate it.

“Don’t worry, Nikolai… Klaus will live,” Katrine said with a small smile, then produced a vial with pills from the medical case. “Give him these before sleep.”

Within a week, Jäger was back to be a little tornado of chaotic energy, able to take care of his horse and constantly bombarding Ivushkin with endless needs and wants.

Ivushkin was thankful for that. He realised that playing along with Jäger and pamper him at request didn’t seem to unbalance the scale of advantage and control in their game. It actually seemed fair, since Jäger spoiled him without being asked to.

* * *

 

Once the weather was better, Ivushkin could hang the laundry outside. He had a minuscule space for that right in front of the back door – the culprit, the dapple-grey horse.

That horse was also the reason why Ivushkin couldn’t have a vegetable garden.

Or maybe the horse’s permissive master was the real culprit.

Ivushkin still didn’t know what kind of pact Jäger had with the monstrous horse, but it worked: the horse roamed free around the walled property, sometimes prancing around in the back of the house, other times trotting back and forth in the front; if any window was left open in the ground floor, the horse would stick its massive head into the house and either raid the kitchen counter or chew on the curtains; sometimes, the horse paid them a visit at the workshop, startling clients and Ivushkin alike, and would either leave after spotting Jäger or need to be pushed out by Jäger. Surprisingly, however, the horse completely ignored the open gate and so far no one – unwary clients or Ivushkin - had been bitten.

That day the horse was prancing around the stable, but then it suddenly began to trot towards where Ivushkin was hanging the laundry. The Percheron horse was big and tall. The biggest horse Ivushkin had ever seen. It advanced rapidly, raising its knees and stomping the ground powerfully. It held its head up high and its ears were pinned back.

Still, it was simply a horse, made of flesh and bone. It wasn’t armoured. It recognized voice commands and tones, and it could be told to go away. Ivushkin had successfully mucked out its stable and fed it while Jäger was ill.

Ivushkin turned on his heels and marched into the kitchen, crossed it and walked into the workshop, where Jäger was cleaning some engine pieces. He had his pipe firmly secured between his teeth and his face was smudged with oil:

“Jäger,” Ivushkin called, standing by the doorway. Jäger grunted in acknowledgment. “Schimmel.”

Leaving the pieces and the cloth on the workbench, Jäger turned around and walked over to Ivushkin with a smug smirk. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes at that, but followed Jäger to the back of the house.

The horse was already chewing with its lips at a sheet - Ivushkin wondered if the horse had caught that habit from seeing Jäger chewing at his pipe.

Ivushkin watched with a mixture of relief and annoyance at how Jäger so easily commanded the horse away with a gesture of his hand. Ivushkin decided to seize the opportunity that Jäger was there to control his monster of a horse and hurriedly hung the remaining laundry.

“We make a good team!” Jäger teased, glancing over his shoulder as the horse gave up and trotted away, into the stable. “We could have changed the fortune of the war, Ivushkin…”

Ivushkin rolled his eyes at that and walked into the house, carrying the empty laundry basket in a hand. He heard Jäger follow him and close the door:

“You’d look wonderful in my uniform,” Jäger whispered behind Ivushkin, who stopped in his tracks abruptly and watched with a frown as Jäger came to stand in front of him. The German had a dark, mischievous grin, and he left his pipe on the kitchen table before holding Ivushkin’s chin between his thumb and index finger. Jäger’s gaze was piercing, intense, and Ivushkin allowed him to tilt his head up. “We could try…”

“And that’s why you’re naïve…” Ivushkin replied, not impressed at all – no, actually, he was impressed Jäger had held so long without bringing up the new use his uniform could be given. He stepped back to free his head, tossed the basket to a corner and walked past Jäger to cross the kitchen and go into the workshop.

But Jäger materialized at the doorway, barring the way and with his pipe secured firmly between his teeth again:

“Naïve,” he repeated. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes at Jäger in pure disbelief:

“Did you honestly think I’d play target?” And that he would ever want to wear that uniform.

“I thought on the eventuality of you trying to escape,” Jäger replied slowly. The mines. Ivushkin snorted, and the ugly feelings that had been hibernating began to raise their heads, slowly:

“And then you claim you liked me…” Jäger’s face went frighteningly blank at the remark, but Ivushkin had never feared Jäger in the first place. Ivushkin’s ugly feelings flared their nostrils, smelling the tension in the air – yet, Ivushkin didn’t want to unleash them. It was enough to know they were still there and could be stirred. “Suppose I played target and survived the training. Then what? You’d have used me again, and again, until eventually I wouldn’t make it.”

“I would have gotten you an amnesty!” Jäger widened his blue eyes and grinned, like Ivushkin was mentally handicapped and couldn’t realise such a logical, obvious thing. “I would have made you train my soldiers, Nikolai!”

“Naïve, Jäger! Naïve!” Ivushkin shook his head, chuckling at how delusional Jäger sounded. “What makes you think I’d betray my motherland like that?”

Jäger blinked his eyes stupidly, and Ivushkin understood the German was completely lost. He could see cogwheels turning and turning in Jäger’s brain as he tried to desperately understand what Ivushkin was telling him.

The world had been at war.

They had been enemies.

Ivushkin had never wanted to be anything else to Jäger.

Slowly, Jäger raised a hand to hold his pipe, and he tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow, like he usually did when trying to make Ivushkin see a point:

“I liked you the moment…” Jäger started, but didn’t finish. He let the words hang, and Ivushkin squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw, _finally realising_ what Jäger had been telling him occasionally over the past few months:

“And I liked you the moment you freed me from that hunting trap,” Ivushkin said, honestly, watching how Jäger frowned softly but still smirked, like a desperate man clinging to a lie he had believed during his whole life. Yet, if Ivushkin thought of it, hadn’t Jäger’s life been but lies and empty dreams of winning a war?

“Didn’t… didn’t you feel lonely, in the camp?” Jäger asked tentatively, and Ivushkin wondered if Jäger wanted to know why, since Ivushkin had despised him so much, he had still sat together with him at the desk to tinker with small devices; if Jäger had still been hopeful to resume his training with Ivushkin’s help.

Back then Ivushkin had been drawn to Jäger to _study_ him, and though he had appreciated all those quiet evenings, Ivushkin didn’t believe he had felt _lonely_.

“I felt lonely in the farm,” Ivushkin finally replied.

They stared at each other for a moment, in silence. Ivushkin’s eyes roamed Jäger’s face, searching for anything that would give the German away – yet Jäger had hidden well, and he turned his back at Ivushkin and walked into the workshop.

Ivushkin chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment, thoughtful. He realised that game of theirs had started long before that night in the farm, but they had been out of synch – Jäger had maneuvered and fired excessively, while Ivushkin had merely stayed hidden until he was eventually discovered and forced to retaliate. To Ivushkin, that meant little and had no influence at the current course the game had taken. He knew, however, it had been a hard blow to Jäger’s strategical skills and tactical planning.

To something else, perhaps, but Ivushkin didn’t feel comfortable dwelling in the subject. They were grown-men, battle-tested – Jäger much more than Ivushkin, and in his inexperience, Ivushkin thought that wounds shouldn’t be dressed in the battlefield.

He walked in the workshop. Jäger, sucking softly at the mouthpiece of his pipe, seemed entertained with the engine pieces he was cleaning. Ivushkin figured he could start assembling the ones that had been already cleaned.

And so they worked in silence, and spent the rest of the day ignoring each other, and when they lied down to sleep, Jäger turned his back at Ivushkin – Ivushkin left him to his thoughts, and later, when he woke up thanks to Jäger startling awake because of a nightmare, he felt as Jäger, instead of reaching out to him like he usually did, simply lied down again to sleep.

The next day was equally spent in mutual ignorance. Yet, at night, when Jäger lied again on his half of the bed with his back turned at Ivushkin, Ivushkin sighed patiently and scooted closer to Jäger. In a hand he held the little toy tank, and he placed it over Jäger’s arm:

“After I escaped in my field kitchen,” he began, leading the tank towards Jäger’s shoulder. “I was given a tank and a crew to command,” The tank went down and started to bravely explore Jäger’s neck and the side of his head. “My tank, against half a dozen German tanks. My first battle,” The tank exchanged Jäger’s head for the pillow, then proceeded down, until it found a convenient bridge to go up Jäger’s chest, towards his shoulder again. “And then I got captured and imprisoned.”

Jäger glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. The tank proceeded down his arm:

“I never fought anyone but you,” Ivushkin stopped the tank on the curve of Jäger’s elbow and left it there. “And you’re a handful, Jäger.”

Jäger turned his head to look at Ivushkin, but remained silent. Then he took the tank from his elbow, turned around to face Ivushkin and guided the tank up Ivushkin’s chest:

“I knew you had potential when you defeated me the first time,” Jäger told. His tone was quiet and he kept his eyes on the tank, that was then going up Ivushkin’s neck, heading to the side of his face. “When you defeated me the second time, I knew you were dangerous. And yet…” The tank stopped over Ivushkin’s ear and Jäger’s eyes met Ivushkin’s: piercing, intense, resentful and hurt. “… I had to have you, Ivushkin.”

Ivushkin picked up the toy tank, twisted slightly to leave it on its place at his bedside table, and then turned to face Jäger again:

“I’m here because I want to,” he said calmly, yet hoped Jäger would see beyond his words. Ivushkin was there because _he_ wanted to… but he wanted it, because _Jäger_ had made him. How they had gotten to that point didn’t really matter anymore.

Maybe Jäger understood, maybe not. Ivushkin wasn’t sure – the German clenched his jaw, but reached out for Ivushkin, held him tightly and hid his head in the crook of Ivushkin’s neck. Ivushkin nuzzled at his hair, softly, and he felt Jäger’s body relax, until the German let out a little content grunt.

It would be hell on earth to tell Jäger he was homesick and wanted to go home for a while. Ivushkin pushed the thought of it to the back of his mind, because that certainly wasn’t the most appropriate time to address the issue. He appreciated having Jäger in his arms, instead.

And, since they had been poking at the past and were dragging out important information from each other, Ivushkin figured they could talk about the bridge – Jäger’s behavior had always intrigued him:

“When I took your hand…” Ivushkin began, but struggled with what to say next. What did he want to know, exactly? Why had Jäger reached out for him and then let himself go? Had Jäger intended to pull him down as well? If Jäger _had to have him_ , then why letting go?

“I wanted to pull you down with me,” Jäger provided helpfully. Ivushkin liked when they were in synchrony and listened carefully. “I didn’t want anyone else to defeat you. It had to be me,” Jäger raised his head and rested it on the pillow, at the same level of Ivushkin’s. The tips of their noses touched, and Ivushkin allowed himself to dive in Jäger’s eyes and lose himself in that breath-taking bight blue – he was so lost he was just vaguely aware of Jäger baring his teeth and caressing his face possessively. Despite everything, Ivushkin enjoyed being touched like that by Jäger.

Then Ivushkin blinked his eyes, and he could see the whole of Jäger’s scarred face again:

“But you let me go,” he stated. The memory was perfectly clear, and it brought him all sorts of emotions: distress, anger, shock, frustration, confusion, relief, fear… Most of it was pointless, and Ivushkin couldn’t understand why, considering how everything unfolded from there, he felt all that:

“I did,” Jäger’s grin was feral, and Ivushkin understood he, too, still had ugly feelings about their past. “I couldn’t let you win, and I couldn’t die in prison.”

Ivushkin wondered if Jäger could die at all and snorted, no longer sure whether Jäger was a coward or merely insane. Either way… they were there.

* * *

 

Ivushkin had especially enjoyed the Spring while he was in captivity. It had brought him hope and had reminded him that, no matter how much the war scarred the landscape, Nature would always find its way back. He, too, had fueled the hope of, one day, finding his way back.

It was Spring again, and Ivushkin had achieved nothing. Standing rigidly at the balcony, Ivushkin looked outside with empty eyes, vaguely aware of busy birds above the trees from the woods near to the property. The day was bright, warm. Jäger had left for a ride, and Ivushkin was glad he could be alone to sort out his thoughts.

He still didn’t have enough money for his journey, and he was seriously considering keeping the workshop open during the weekends. But that would give his despair away, and he didn’t want Jäger to see it because he didn’t know how the German would react. Ivushkin was almost certain that Jäger was no longer dangerous (except for his sanity), but… as much as Ivushkin hated to admit it, Jäger was _unpredictable_ _most times_ : even if Ivushkin could guess Jäger’s reactions, he would never be able to pinpoint exactly _how intensely_ Jäger would react. Ivushkin knew when something would upset the German, he just never knew for sure what would follow: a petty tantrum, a childish pout, silent seething that heralded some sort of revenge in an unknown future, self-doubt, genuine hurt. Tantrums, pouts, doubt and hurt didn’t pose much trouble to be taken care of, as Ivushkin had discovered Jäger had all sorts of endless needs when it came to comfort and reassurance and company. No, these were easy – though not always pleasing – to deal with. What truly worried Ivushkin was triggering cruelty on Jäger.

Jäger could be a clumsy duckling and a diving falcon, a purring cat and a hungry lion, a content lizard on the sun and a venomous snake coiled to attack.

The delicate balance of Jäger’s moods depended on Ivushkin, and as much as Ivushkin would like to continue to think he could do as it pleased him, he was starting to realise he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. _Couldn’t_ , if he wanted to make things right. Which Ivushkin wanted to, no matter how annoyed he felt that he had allowed that game of theirs and his feelings for Jäger to trap him in such a way.

Ivushkin ran a hand over his shaved scalp and exhaled slowly, feeling exhausted. He blamed Jäger for that, more than his worries over his mother and saving enough money to go visit her. His thoughts wandered to how his mother would be feeling, and then his tank crew and Anya popped in his mind. Ivushkin asked himself what had happened to them. Had they returned safely to Russian territory? Had they died on the way? Did they think of him?

The sound of ironclad hooves broke his line of thought. Ivushkin watched as Jäger appeared, trotting on the Percheron horse – Ivushkin both marvelled at how Jäger was able to sit on the saddle and doubted it was comfortable at all. He saw Jäger turn on the saddle and their eyes met. The German held the reins with a hand and raised his other in a salute, then turned on the saddle again and bent forwards as the horse entered the stable.

Ivushkin realised he had a little smile on his lips, but the smile died the moment Jäger was out of sight. He allowed his mind to be blissfully blank for a moment, until it went back to his previous thoughts.

His tank crew and Anya.

They, too, had been prisoners. Were they free, by then? Or were they trapped under their consent, like Ivushkin?

He remembered the night in the woods, when they had evaded Jäger’s road-blockage. He remembered Stepan singing, and realised that, since he had been recaptured and taken to the camp again, the only voice speaking to him in Russian had been his own. He wrote Cyrillic sometimes to remember, and he was still confused by Latin letters that looked the same as Cyrillic characters but had nothing in common.

Ivushkin remembered the song clearly, but not Stepan’s voice: the words, the melody, the meaning… it was there. He realised he was singing it softly, lowly, in a gradually quivering voice. His heart clenched and his eyes stung as his vision blurred with tears.

He missed home. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see his mother. He wanted to hear his mother-tongue, and eat Russian food, and smell the scent of Russian flowers, and be under the Russian sky in the Summer, in the Russian countryside.

“Nikolai?”

Ivushkin jumped out of his skin as he heard his name and felt Jäger’s hand on his shoulder. He turned away from the balcony and tried to walk past Jäger: the last thing he needed was for Jäger to see him with tears streaming down his face.

However, Jäger blocked the way and forcefully tilted Ivushkin’s head up with a gloved hand, scanning his face with wide eyes and with such intensity Ivushkin felt like Jäger was accessing his best-kept secrets, the very core of his being. He clenched his jaw and shoved Jäger aside, finally walking past him while drying his face to his sleeves.

But before he could leave the bedroom, Jäger held him by the shoulder and spun him around. Ivushkin didn’t want to be in the same room as the German, and opened his mouth to tell him that. Yet, Jäger seemed truly concerned. His face was very serious, his body tense. He was still in his riding attire, his boots were dusty and there was a few horse hairs on his sweaty face. Ivushkin never understood how the rider could sweat, if it was the horse doing all the effort. He stood still, looking at Jäger with a mixture of resentment and betrayal: it was Jäger’s fault that Ivushkin hadn’t gone home, and why couldn’t have he announced himself instead of sneaking up on Ivushkin?

Jäger pulled off his gloves and shoved them in the pockets of his breeches, then rested both hands on Ivushkin’s shoulders:

“What’s wrong?” Jäger asked, softly. He looked truly concerned. Even more than when Ivushkin had stepped on that hunting trap.

Ivushkin chewed at his tongue for a moment, then looked down:

“I miss home,” he muttered. Jäger cupped his face with a hand and thumbed at the Y-shaped scar on his cheek. After a moment of resistance, Ivushkin leaned into the touch:

“You’re home, Kolya…” Jäger stated, tilted his head down and raised an eyebrow – trying to make Ivushkin see a point. Ivushkin sighed tiredly, slouched his shoulders and closed his eyes. He didn’t expect Jäger to understand – not willingly, at least. Ivushkin wasn’t in the mood to make him see it and argue, and he shook his head and stepped back.

Yet, Jäger wrapped his arms around him. Vicious, comforting. Ivushkin couldn’t find it in himself to fight against it, and he wrapped his arms loosely around Jäger’s waist and burrowed his face in the crook of Jäger’s neck. Jäger smelt of cologne, sweat, leather and hay. It was a familiar scent, and Jäger was right when he said Ivushkin was home.

Yet, Ivushkin was home away from home.

The next day, Ivushkin spent most of the time alone in the workshop. Jäger went somewhere and took the car, but Ivushkin was still too embarrassed at being caught in a moment of fragility to wonder about Jäger’s plans.

Jäger returned in the evening, and still left Ivushkin by himself in the workshop. When Ivushkin was done for the day and crossed the living room to go to the stairs, he noticed a record player on the coffee table near the couch. It hadn’t been there that morning, and Ivushkin figured it must have come from Jäger’s studio. The thought that Jäger was moving his military marches and operas outside the studio had Ivushkin clenching his fists in anger and feel a deep, painful sting of betrayal. Ivushkin headed upstairs to shower, and when he went downstairs again to help making dinner, he found Jäger waiting for him on the couch. With a little pile of records.

The German looked very pleased with himself and patted the empty space next to him. Ivushkin narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He walked up to Jäger and opened his mouth to yell at him about how he had no right to importunate him with music in _German_ , but Jäger handed him the small pile of records, his all-knowing, superior smirk shifting to a sincere smile. Ivushkin frowned and took the records.

Russian ballet.

Ivushkin felt like a carpet had been pulled from under his feet and he was falling on his backside, ungraciously. He looked at Jäger again, sitting on the couch and staring at him expectantly with a smile. Ivushkin understood immediately the record player hadn’t come from the studio. He was speechless, and even had trouble reasoning. He simply stared from Jäger to the records, and then to Jäger again, and back to the records, and again to Jäger.

And was Jäger mocking him or genuinely trying to make Ivushkin feel better? _More at home_.

Ivushkin wanted to believe that last option. Especially, considering the way Jäger was staring at him.

Then again, Ivushkin already knew their game wasn’t simply… a game.

He smiled, sat next to Jäger and kept looking at the small pile of records in his hands:

“Feeling better, already?” Jäger asked playfully and nuzzled at his neck. Ivushkin snorted, but yes, he felt better. It was good to be reminded that he had stayed for the right reasons.

* * *

 

Yet, that longing kept gnawing at Ivushkin, increasing in insistence as the Summer approached.

Ivushkin assumed he was being obvious, because Jäger – needy, demanding, attentive lover – became absolutely… smothering. Only when Jäger went out to ride or when they had clients in the workshop, did Ivushkin have a break from Jäger’s grabby hands. Jäger didn’t even lock himself in his studio for hours, like he had used to – he was always with Ivushkin, and though they didn’t always talk, they had to always touch. Jäger’s preferred approach seemed to be lying on the couch with his head on Ivushkin’s lap.

Ivushkin was torn between appreciating Jäger’s effort and push him away. He realised what bothered him most was that he _thought_ Jäger simply wanted to make him feel appreciated, but he _wasn’t sure_ of it – Jäger could be trying to manipulate him. But he didn’t want to ask, or, better, he didn’t feel comfortable telling Jäger he still couldn’t figure him out. In fact, Ivushkin wasn’t willing to admit to _himself_ he had overestimated his ability to read and decipher Jäger.

He wanted to believe, however, that Jäger just wanted to make him feel… that he belonged there. It was so easy to believe that.

Especially when Jäger darted into the workshop, beaming, announcing his nephews were going to stay with them for the weekend. Ivushkin wondered whether Katrine was testing her twin or something had happened and she was truly desperate.

Turned out Otto’s mother broke a leg, and so Otto and Katrine would stay with her in the city. They were leaving on Friday but would return Sunday, and Katrine gave Ivushkin very precise instructions over the phone: the children had to be picked up from school at mid-day, they had to do their homework before being allowed to play, they were forbidden to ride the Percheron horse, there should be no candy in the evening and war stories should be avoided at any cost. Katrine said she had already explained all this to her brother, but she doubted he would respect anything other than picking up his nephews and watching their homework – Ivushkin felt like he had been put in charge of a particularly hard mission, but the situation was hilarious, as Jäger would effectively need to be kept under surveillance… yet also a bit sad, and Ivushkin felt like he should stand up for Jäger.

However, he didn’t, and merely promised Katrine she would have her children back in one piece and uncorrupted by differing ideologies.

As always, things were easier said than done. While helping Jäger cleaning up the spare room on the second floor and making the bunkbeds with fresh sheets, Ivushkin felt like he was back to the camp, in Jäger’s private quarters, listening to his endless monologues. Those were no longer about the war, but it was still a grandiose plan of action, detailed and complex, about the endless fun everyone was going to have that weekend. It included innocent things that Katrine would certainly approve, like camping inside a tent of sheets in the living room and visiting the ruins of a local castle, but the majority of the plan was clearly anti-Katrine, like teaching the children to shoot a pistol, and teach them to ride on horseback, and teach them hand to hand combat. Ivushkin couldn’t find it in himself to deny that… those were useful skills. But his country had been invaded and innocent civilians had been slaughtered – Switzerland was not at war, so, logically, there was no need for such young children to know how to shoot someone. Besides… he doubted excited children would ever be able to keep to themselves – to keep _from Katrine_ – that they had had a real pistol in hands and had ridden a giant horse. Katrine would never forgive Jäger, and Ivushkin cared for him too much to let him ruin his still-recovering relationship with his sister:

“Katrine won’t like that...” he stated, once the room had been cleaned and the beds made and Jäger had finally grown silent to admire their work.

Jäger looked at him, visibly unimpressed:

“Kattie won’t be here…” Ivushkin rolled his eyes at that:

“Your nephews will report to her.”

“They wouldn’t denounce me!” Jäger sounded truly shocked and Ivushkin needed to fight back a smile. “I’m their favourite uncle!!”

“They can’t lie to Katrine…” Ivushkin argued logically. Jäger frowned at that, but seemingly gave it a thought. The way he pushed his lips out in a pout led Ivushkin to conclude that Jäger had seen a point in his words.

Yet, the German was stubborn, and he puffed his chest and turned his back to the room:

“But Karl is older, more resistant…”

“He’s eleven!” Ivushkin lost it and burst out laughing. Jäger was ridiculous sometimes. It was impressive ( _terrifying_ ) how a man that could be such an effective and cruel soldier could also be so… naïve. Ivushkin realised that was one of his favourite traits in Jäger.

They stared at each other for a moment, in silence. Jäger’s eyes, so intense and piercing, looked at Ivushkin in the way that had alerted Ivushkin to the changes in their game. He felt his heart clench, but he was certain that, once he was back from visiting his mother, he would be more responsive. He broke eye-contact and walked away.

That Friday, Ivushkin worked alone in the workshop while Jäger went to buy some groceries before leaving in the car to pick up his nephews. Ivushkin was in charge of giving lunch to the horse and to make their lunch.

Ivushkin carried a little smile as he moved around, stirring the pan and setting the table for lunch: it would be fun to look after Jäger’s nephews over the weekend; besides, with the children there, Jäger would certainly give them all his attention – consequently, giving Ivushkin a break from his smothering affections.

Ivushkin didn’t hear the car outside, but he heard the commotion in the living room – and he wasn’t surprised at all that Jäger sounded the most excited.

The first to rush in the kitchen was Anika, squealing in delight as she ran at Ivushkin and hugged him around the waist. Johan and Karl followed, equally enthusiastic. It was almost like they hadn’t seen Ivushkin in a long time, and like they were particularly fond of him.

Like Ivushkin was also a favourite of them.

Jäger walked in and, for a moment, Ivushkin was afraid he would come for a hug as well. Instead, the German merely cast him a look (happy?, proud?) and called his nephews to go upstairs to wash their hands.

After lunch, Ivushkin went back to the workshop only to discover he couldn’t quite focus. He had left Jäger supervising his nephews’ homework, something he didn’t felt comfortable with… but once the homework was done, Jäger would keep his nephews busy with something else, and Ivushkin realised he _needed_ to make sure it wasn’t something that would later get Jäger in trouble with his sister.

Throughout the day, Ivushkin took several breaks to inspect Jäger and his nephews. The first time, the children were still doing their homework and Jäger was helping them; the second time, they were in the stable brushing and braiding the Percheron horse under Jäger’s surveillance – and Ivushkin had to remain in the stable for a while, just to be sure no riding lesson would follow, and Jäger had seemed extremely pleased for having kept Ivushkin around; the third time, Ivushkin found Jäger reading a book to his nephews, and he stood there for a while just to be sure it wasn’t something… political – again, Jäger looked delighted for having kept Ivushkin a little longer in the living room; the fourth time he saw Johan hidden under the table and sighed in relief, assuming they were playing hide-and-seek; the fifth time he found them all gathered in the living room to play chess, and though Ivushkin was sure Jäger could transform an innocent game into a lesson in military strategy, he opted for believing Jäger wouldn’t; the last time Ivushkin found Jäger making dinner with the help of his nephews, and though Ivushkin had no doubts Katrine had taught Anika well about work in the kitchen, the sight of a little girl cutting vegetables with a knife made him close the workshop earlier and take over the knife – once again, Jäger looked extremely pleased about having lured Ivushkin into staying with them, even at the expense of his own niece.

Though Ivushkin already knew it by experience, Jäger had a lot to give but he didn’t always know how – he certainly meant well by tucking in his nephews in their bunkbeds, but Ivushkin could not allow the children to sleep trapped in such a tight cocoon of sheets.

Once all the three children were comfortable, Jäger sat cross-legged on the floor and tugged at Ivushkin’s pants:

“Now tell us a story, Kolya,” he demanded, and his nephews looked up expectantly at Ivushkin. Ivushkin was momently lost, and he frowned at Jäger like he had said something extremely improper. “Something Russian, Ivushkin!”

Ivushkin merely blinked his eyes, shocked. That was… unexpected. Why would Jäger want him to tell a _Russian_ tale to his nephews? Would that upset Katrine? Was Jäger mocking him for his homesickness, or was he trying to help in his own twisted way? Slowly, Ivushkin sat on the floor next to Jäger and began to tell one of the many stories his grandmother had told him.

Masha and the Bear. A clever Russian girl escaping imprisonment from a bear. It was almost offensive to tell it in German.

Ivushkin could feel Jäger’s eyes on him, sometimes: intense, piercing, seeing into him. Once the tale was finished, Ivushkin automatically looked at Jäger, to find him staring with an undecipherable expression.

The next second, however, Jäger jumped to his feet and started to kiss his nephews good-night. Ivushkin stood up and watched, fighting back a smile, then frowned in confusion when Jäger climbed to the free top bunk:

“I’ll stand guard, the monsters that lived under the beds might want to return!” Jäger chirped happily, lying on his stomach and wearing his clothes and shoes. Anika widened her eyes at that:

“They won’t, your uncle is too annoying,” Ivushkin assured her, and she seemed relieved. Then, she stretched her arms at him, and after a little hesitation, Ivushkin bent down to kiss her good-night – as for the boys, however, he simply patted their heads.

He looked at Jäger, perched on his bunk and looking at him with a delighted smile. It bordered his smug smirk, but the smirk didn’t wrinkle the corners of his eyes. Ivushkin didn’t know Jäger had planned to sleep there, but he had to admit it was… safer: one of the children might have a nightmare and wander off to look for Jäger, and Ivushkin was sure Katrine wouldn’t be pleased if her children caught Jäger and Ivushkin sleeping together.

Especially since Jäger banned pyjamas.

Ivushkin turned his back to leave:

“What about me??” Jäger cried dramatically, making his nephews burst out laughing. Ivushkin glanced over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, and had to fight back a smile at how pathetic Jäger could be. Ivushskin turned around again and approached Jäger to pat his shoulder – that earned him a pleased smile.

Since Jäger would stay at the opposite side of the second floor, Ivushkin thought he would have a night of peaceful sleep. He was proud of all the interest Jäger had in him, and glad that the German sought him, and he appreciated Jäger’s attentiveness very much. But being able to have a couple of nights for _himself,_ to fall asleep to his own thoughts, to think to himself in his mother-tongue, to show in his face how much he missed home… it sounded delightful, and exactly like the little break Ivushkin needed from Jäger’s smothering affections ever since… Jäger found him crying.

Feeling content, Ivushkin dressed his formerly banned pyjama and crawled into his half of the bed, made himself comfortable and switched off the bedside lamp – not before his eyes caught the little tank toy proudly displayed in the bedside table, and Ivushkin smiled fondly at it.

In the dark, Ivushkin closed his eyes. He thought a little to himself in Russian, mostly trying to predict what Jäger had planned for the next day, but the thoughts drifted into memories from that day, and Ivushkin smiled warmly against the pillow as he remembered Jäger’s clear happiness every time he had successfully kept Ivushkin around for a bit longer. Ivushkin’s smile died a little and he burrowed his head in the pillow. He cared for Jäger, deeply, and he knew he didn’t always show it the way Jäger wanted it. But it was fun – and empowering in a way – to annoy Jäger; yet, Ivushkin was positive he would find a better balance once he returned from visiting his mother: once he told (and showed) her he was alive and well, he would be free of concerns.

Only then would he let Jäger pull him over the edge to fall together into the abyss.

With a grunt, Ivushkin turned around, burrowed his head in the pillow again, and against every bit of common sense, cracked an eye open to look at the vacant space next to him.

Jäger’s half of the bed, cold and empty for as long as his nephews stayed.

If Jäger were there, and wanted only cuddles, his arms would be wrapped tightly around Ivushkin and their legs would be tangled; if he wanted pleasure, he would be lying atop Ivushkin, and their hands would roam each other’s bodies frantically. Underlying or explicit, affection would be there. The pyjamas, however, would be nowhere to be found.

Ivushkin turned again, lying on his back. Sleeping with Jäger by his side had been going on just for months, but given the circumstances of their lives, it felt like… they belonged together.

Suddenly, Ivushkin widened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in silence. Though lying still as a statue, his heart was rather restless.

What if Jäger had a nightmare? What if he woke up in the middle of the night with a desperate gasp, jerking to a sitting position, without Ivushkin to switch on the light and…

Ivushkin clenched his jaw and closed his eyes again, determined to get some sleep. The worst that would happen would be waking up the children – probably, Jäger’s pride would be bruised for having to explain his nephews he, a mighty soldier, had had a nightmare. Jäger had already proved he could take care of himself after waking up from a nightmare, he didn’t necessarily _need Ivushkin by his side_.

He wouldn’t have Ivushkin there, once Ivushkin was in Russia with his mother.

And Ivushkin refused to trouble himself with the sudden realisation that Jäger could have nightmares during his absence. Ivushkin did not want that responsibility, they were both fully grown men, battle-tested.

Ivushkin turned again to lie on his side, and though his mind quieted down, sleep would not come. He was painfully aware of hours passing by, and every time the church bell in the village rang the hour, Ivushkin sighed miserably.

Finally, defeated, he stumbled out of the bed and crossed the corridor silently, in the dark, until he reached the other room at the opposite end and opened the door carefully. He peeked in, and all the children were sleeping peacefully – _Jäger_ was sleeping peacefully. Ivushkin spent some time watching the dark outline of his body in the dim room, then, as silently as possible, he closed the door again and returned to bed.

* * *

 

Ivushkin was ashamed that sleeping poorly for two nights, plus waking up early to exercise and then spend the rest of the day exposed to overly excited children – _and Jäger_ – had taken such a toll on him. Yet, he was certain that policing Jäger to make sure he wouldn’t go against Katrine’s instructions was what had truly worn him out: looking out for Jäger was almost as hard as keeping an eye on three children – he was as excitable and energetic (if not more) than his nephews, with the aggravating factor that he clearly amused himself with constantly threatening to cross the line between ‘Katrine would approve’ and ‘Katrine would _not_ approve’.

By no means would Ivushkin consciously admit that having to behave like there was nothing between him and Jäger had also played an important role in sucking his energy away.

Despite constant threats, the line had not been crossed and the children had been returned to their zealous mother with zero combat skills and free of political indoctrination. Katrine had seemed pleased and Ivushkin had been extremely relieved.

When Ivushkin and Jäger left the car and walked in the house, they were greeted by silence. It felt slightly overwhelming, and in the back of his mind Ivushkin could hear the children’s – and Jäger’s - excited ruckus. Ivushkin glanced over his shoulder, to Jäger, who seemed momently lost in thought – probably, he too still heard all the liveliness from the last two days. Then, Jäger locked eyes with Ivushkin, hung his hat and coat hurriedly and strode to him with a devilish grin.

Ivushkin snorted but welcomed Jäger with a fervent kiss and clung to him. Jäger had kept for himself with apparent ease – Ivushkin had even felt slightly offended at how the German had so easily refrained from touching him or looking at him like he usually did. Yet, Ivushkin understood it had been just pretence, and he did nothing to stop Jäger from crumbling so fast. He even instigated it by biting hard and sucking at that spot in Jäger’s neck, mouthing something embarrassingly needy against the recently bruised skin.

Their control lasted just enough for them to reach the bedroom, where it was promptly lost amidst tangled limbs and pressed bodies desperately wanting to be one.

It was not a battle, it didn’t have purpose or coordination to be one. It had not been thought through, there was no objective to be attained and nothing strategical to gain from it. It couldn’t even be considered a skirmish. It was a recurring situation, one when Ivushkin’s mind was blissfully blank from thoughts and worries and priorities and filled solely by the thousand sensations in his body; when Ivushkin’s only concern was to pleasure Jäger, and show him how much he meant to Ivushkin, and how committed Ivushkin was to him; when Ivushkin fully dropped his increasingly outdated defences and mumbled senseless things in his mother-tongue and made little sounds that spurred Jäger.

It lasted longer than a battle, and though it wasn’t as brutal, it was equally fervent. The aftermath, too, was practically the same of a battle: troops gathered in their respective halves of the field to count casualties and recover for the next offensive. It was the moment that Ivushkin’s reasoning emerged from a haze to remind him he could not let Jäger pull him down into the abyss _yet_. Ivushkin needed to go to Russia first, he had to tell his mother he was alive and well, he had to show her there were no reasons to worry about him because he had someone to take care of him.

“I missed you,” Jäger said abruptly, distracting Ivushkin from his thoughts. Ivushkin glanced over his shoulder, watching momently as Jäger innocently – waiting – nuzzled circles on Ivushkin’s shoulder blade. Ivushkin looked ahead again, to where their arms were stretched and their fingers intertwined, then looked down at their tangled legs. Their bodies were still pressed together, the sheets and duvet were kicked and piled chaotically at the end of the bed. They were a mess of drying sweat and semen and the air around them was hot and damp – a wonderful feeling in the Winter, but extremely uncomfortable in the Summer:

“We were in the same house…” Ivushkin replied logically, but thumbed softly at Jäger’s hand. He, too, had missed Jäger.

But they had been in the same house. They shouldn’t miss each other while in the same house. It wasn’t like one of them had left to a distant country to be away for some months. Ivushkin’s gut twisted in anticipated anxiety – _Jäger would not be pleased once he knew Ivushkin’s plans._

Jäger sighed annoyedly against the back of Ivushkin’s neck. Of course, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Ivushkin doubted anyone would like to hear that kind of fact:

“I couldn’t sleep…” he eventually confessed and felt Jäger nibble and lick gently at where his neck met the shoulder. “I was worried you’d have a nightmare,” A flick of tongue on Ivushkin’s earlobe, but Ivushkin refrained from further confessions.

Still, he had seemingly saved the moment, and for a little longer Jäger was entertained licking and biting and pulling at his ear:

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Jäger eventually whispered, after settling behind Ivushkin again. He sounded extremely pleased, and Ivushkin rolled his eyes, defeated, knowing already what Jäger would say next. “I saw you. You went to check on me, Nikolai.”

Ivushkin did. For the two nights they slept apart. He couldn’t help but smile at how Jäger held him tighter and nuzzled at the back of his neck, visibly pleased with such concern.

* * *

 

Radios were one of Ivushkin’s favourite things to fix, and he was almost done with one of the three radios queued on the workbench when Jäger emerged from the kitchen, with hay sticking out of his hair, his trademark boyish smile… and an orange cat in his arms. Ivushkin frowned:

“Nikolai, meet Panther!” Jäger announced as he approached Ivushkin and almost shoved the cat on his face, extremely pleased with himself.

The cat seemed rather bored, looking at Ivushkin with patient yellow eyes. It was curled in Jäger’s arms, but judging by the paws and the long tail swinging left to right, Ivushkin assumed the cat was big. It had a sympathetic face, but it had a deep scar across its nose and the tip of its left ear was missing. Other than that, the cat seemed clean and well-fed:

“It’s not even black,” Ivushkin stated. It earned him an offended look from Jäger. “Tiger is more fitting,” Ivushkin smiled widely at how Jäger looked down at the cat, then back at him. “Where did you find it?”

“ _Panther_ has been Schimmel’s neighbour for a few weeks. He was rather skinny when I saw him,” Jäger told. Ivushkin nodded, slowly, finally understanding why meat leftovers had been disappearing mysteriously – he had thought Jäger had befriended a neighbouring cat, but seemed he had gotten himself a new pet:

“I thought cats were hunters…” Discrediting the cat’s hunting ability seemed an offense even greater than switching its name, and Ivushkin could barely refrain from laughing at Jäger’s expression.

Jäger looked down at the cat, pouting. Ivushkin realised he would not be allowed to work on the radios as long as Panther Tiger didn’t get its rightful dose of attention, and so he stood up, walked up to Jäger and scratched softly at the top of the cat’s head:

“Schimmel could step on it,” The curtains were already bitten by the horse, a cat scratching them wouldn’t make much of a difference. Jäger shook his head:

“Panther knows better than going in the stall. He’s been living on the hay stacks,” Then, Jäger put on his most innocent face. “He already chased all the mice…”

And of course, the cat had to lie on Ivushkin’s half of the couch. For a stray cat that had been living with a giant horse and that had been gradually won over with food, it acted like it had always been part of that household.

Ivushkin liked the cat. Even though it took his spot and forced him to either sit on the floor or on Jäger’s lap – Ivushkin would like to know what kind of pact Jäger had made with that cat, and if it included the safety of their curtains.

The cat was actually well-behaved. It roamed the property and the house like it owned the place; it mostly followed Jäger, but also spent a considerable time watching Ivushkin working in the workshop, especially when Jäger left to ride on the Percheron horse; it always slept indoors, on the couch (and Ivushkin was oddly thankful the cat didn’t follow them to the bedroom). The most destructive thing it did was scratching the carpets.

The cat also captured a great deal of Jäger’s attention, something Ivushkin was extremely grateful for: of course, Jäger had no trouble splitting his time and attention among Ivushkin, the horse and the cat, but the time he spent playing with the cat and tending to it was… time he didn’t spend smothering Ivushkin with his needs and wants and caprices.

It was also time Ivushkin could use to plan the most delicate operation so far: telling Jäger he was going to visit his mother. Doing most of the work in the workshop had paid off, and by September Ivushkin would have enough for his journey without completely ruining his savings.

But the clock was ticking, and he had to hurry and tell Jäger about it, for the sooner he did it, the more time Jäger would have to cool off.

It was the end of July, and Ivushkin realised he had to set the operation in motion – no matter how nervous he felt about how Jäger would react.

“I’m going to Russia, for a while,” Ivushkin blurted out after lunch. Jäger had bent down to put his dish on the floor to let the cat inspect it, and he straightened up so abruptly he hit his head on the table and cursed. Yet, he was chuckling as he rubbed the top of his head, and he tilted his head down and raised an eyebrow:

“What did you say, Nikolai?” he asked, way too cheerfully. Ivushkin hadn’t planned to repeat it, and he sighed and looked down:

“I’m going to Russia, for a while. To visit my mother,” he said, louder and slower. He looked up.

Ivushkin might as well have looked the devil in the eye.

Jäger’s expression… it was the ugliest face Ivushkin had ever seen him make. Jäger’s chuckle had frozen in an awkward-angled grin that bared his teeth and wrinkled his scars, his head was still tilted down and his eyes, looking up at Ivushkin, had gained a malevolent intensity. The blue irises seemed suddenly made of steel, and for a moment the image of a wolf, with its lips pulled back and baring its fangs, overlapped Jäger’s face.

Tension was palpable in the silence. The silence was dreadful. Ivushkin reminded himself he had _never_ feared Jäger – not when he had had blood on his face and had given him a look full of hate, not when his handsome features turned that monstrous.

Jäger opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Ivushkin watched as his jaw snapped closed and he chewed angrily at his tongue, all the while staring daggers, no… bullets, no… _shells_ … at Ivushkin. Ivushkin didn’t like to be looked at in that way, not by Jäger. He took a deep breath:

“I need to tell my mother I’m fine. I can’t write her, and when I left we didn’t have a phone at home,” Ivushkin paused for a moment, watching as Jäger proceeded to chew his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. Ivushkin wouldn’t be surprised if he saw blood dripping from Jäger’s tightly pressed lips. “But I’ll come back! I won’t stay in Russia! I’ll be gone just for a couple of months!”

Jäger’s nostrils were flared and pulled straight up in an expression that Ivushkin couldn’t identify as rage or disgust.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivushkin caught an orange blur bolting out of the kitchen. Then Jäger stood up so violently that his chair toppled over and he stormed away. Ivushkin heard him stomp his way upstairs and slam a door – probably the studio.

Ivushkin felt exhausted. Jäger both recharged and drained him completely.

Sometime later, while he was in the workshop, he heard the thundering of hooves coming from the back of the house. He looked away from the clock he was assembling right on time to see Jäger galloping through the open gate, on his monstrous dapple-grey horse. Ivushkin didn’t like when Jäger rode that fast, especially when Schimmel had new shoes – the horse could slip, could fall, could trap Jäger under its weight…

Ivushkin went back to work. The cat joined him and Ivushkin confessed to it his worries, and as hours passed by, Ivushkin’s attention began to drift.

Schimmel was nowhere to be heard.

Ivushkin did not want to worry. Jäger was a capable rider and the horse was well-behaved to him. Besides, Jäger needed to cool off, a long ride would be good for him.

With these thoughts in mind, Ivushkin dialled Katrine’s number. When she answered the phone, Ivushkin put on his most nonchalant tone and looked at the cat, already curled on the couch:

“Is Klaus there?” he asked, knowing deep down he had sounded… obvious. Across the line, however, Katrine did not sound impressed:

“He left about an hour ago,” she replied calmly. An awkward silence followed, then Katrine proceeded. “It’s none of my business, but-“

“I’m just going to visit my mother, I’m not going away forever!!” Ivushkin immediately defended himself, because of course Klaus Jäger, former SS-Standartenführer, fully grown-man, went to complain to his sister:

“I know, Nikolai. But Klaus… he gets scared easily,” There was a hesitation, then Katrine proceeded, sounding defeated. “He just fell in love once, and it was a uniform.”

Ivushkin’s gut twisted uncomfortably. He curled the line around his finger, trying to think of something to say. He heard Katrine sigh before she spoke again:

“I’m sure he’ll be there soon. Schimmel needs to eat.”

Yes, Jäger took excellent care of his horse – he was particularly meticulous with meal time. Ivushkin should have thought about it before calling Katrine and embarrass himself.

All Ivushkin could do was wait, and he went upstairs to shower, then started making dinner.

That was when he heard Schimmel trotting outside, and he let out a shaky breath as an uncomfortable weight was lifted from his shoulders. The cat, sitting on the floor and observing Ivushkin attentively, jumped to the open window and left, certainly going to look for Jäger in the stable. Ivushkin remained in the kitchen, busying himself more than necessary with pots and pans.

When he heard the back door opening and Jäger walking in quietly, he didn’t turn around. Jäger didn’t slam the door, nor stomped away as he headed upstairs. Ivushkin knew he was going to shower, and when Jäger didn’t go back to the kitchen and wasn’t in the living room, Ivushkin understood he was in the studio.

Ivushkin had dinner with the cat for company. Once he was finished, he filled Jäger’s dish, went upstairs and knocked at the studio’s door:

“Dinner,” he said, and left the dish on the floor. “Hurry or Tiger will eat it.”

He returned downstairs, but heard the door opening and closing again. The cat didn’t follow him and, for the first time in weeks, Ivushkin could sit on his usual spot in the couch.

Ivushkin threw his head back and sighed tiredly, closing his eyes for a moment. He was not surprised at how Jäger had taken it… but, deep down, he was disappointed at it. Jäger had no reasons to be so… distrustful of him. The world was no longer at war, they were not enemies anymore. Ivushkin, too, had waited for Jäger when he had left to Zürich, had had to manage by himself – and Jäger had just told him about it the night before leaving.

Katrine’s words played in the back of Ivushkin’s mind, like an incoming headache.

Ivushkin doubted Jäger was simply… scared. He was more inclined to believe that Jäger was also throwing one of his moods at the realisation that he didn’t control Ivushkin’s life anymore – Jäger had lost control of it the moment he had returned Ivushkin’s documents. His ugly feelings towards Jäger raised their heads again, stirred and alert.

Yet again… it had been Ivushkin’s decision to stay, and deal with Jäger and his endless moods and needs and wants and thousand caprices.

And Jäger… was worth it.

With a sigh, Ivushkin stood up and went upstairs, mentally preparing to sleep alone.

He wasn’t surprised at all to realise he couldn’t fall asleep.

He was surprised, however, when he heard the door open very slowly and carefully and Jäger walking in quietly. Ivushkin lied still and listened attentively as Jäger undressed, folded his clothes and crawled as silently as possible into his half of the bed, where he lied down without reaching out for Ivushkin – who looked over his shoulder and verified there was a gap between them, and that Jäger’s back was facing him.

Ivushkin hesitated for a moment, realising that, maybe if he hadn’t constantly taken Jäger’s attempts to the banter side, Jäger’s reaction could have been less… dramatic. He bit his lower lip softly, then turned around and scooted over to Jäger. Carefully, he rested a hand on Jäger’s shoulder:

“Klaus?” Since nothing followed, Ivushkin approached a little more and lied down again, wrapping his arm around Jäger’s waist. “If we consider that, after I escaped in my field-kitchen, we met again in the village… and again in the camp… and in the bridge… and now we’re here… then it’s a mathematical law that we always find our way back to each other.”

He felt Jäger breathe out, slowly. Ivushkin kissed the base of his neck, between his shoulder blades. Affection and reassurance had always returned Jäger back to normal… but that seemed quite the crisis, and Ivushkin could not predict for _how long_ it would take for Jäger to be successfully calmed down and driven back to his normal state.

And if petty payback would follow. Ivushkin could only hope they were definitely past that.

“If I wanted to leave, I’d have done that the moment you returned my documents. I’ve had plenty of opportunity, but I stayed,” Ivushkin proceeded. His gut twisted and clenched, uncomfortable. He didn’t like to speak his heart, he preferred to show it – yet, he had realised Jäger needed complex diagrams with extensive explanation, detailed maps and a full dossier of intelligence. “I stayed for you.”

He felt Jäger breathe in, suddenly:

“You said you cared, Ivushkin…” he accused in a tight voice.

“And I care! But the last time I wrote to my mother was in 41, just before I was captured! I thought about her every day, and I need to go home, show her I’m alive and well. And I will come back for you, and things will be better because I won’t be worried about contacting my mother!”

Silence stretched between them. Jäger said nothing, but he also didn’t push Ivushkin away. With a sigh, Ivushkin planted another kiss between Jäger’s shoulder blades:

“When you left to Zürich, you just told me about it the night before. Don’t you think I trusted you to come back, but I still stayed and waited,” he added, realising a bit too late that accusing Jäger might not have been his best idea.

Yet, Jäger said and did nothing.

Only the next night, after spending the day ignoring each other, did Jäger go to bed at the same time as Ivushkin. They lied together and Jäger immediately burrowed his head in the crook of Ivushkin’s neck. Ivushkin wrapped his arms around him and held him close:

“When are you leaving?” Jäger grunted after a moment, his voice muffled against Ivushkin’s neck.

And that was Jäger’s greatest weakness, the one Ivushkin would never exploit:

“Late September. We still have time,” Ivushkin nuzzled at Jäger’s head, but seemed the German was still… upset. “And I am coming back in time for your birthday.”

Jäger simply sighed, burrowing his head further, and Ivushkin understood Jäger would take a long time to be appeased.

Some weeks later and Ivushkin startled awake thanks to Jäger waking up from a nightmare. Ivushkin had already thought the nightmares had little to do with how the day was spent and with how close together they slept – that didn’t mean they wouldn’t get more frequent when he left, and Ivushkin was concerned about it.

He could only hope Jäger wouldn’t bring it up.

Jäger, who took a few calming breaths and immediately returned to his original spot in Ivushkin’s arms and burrowed his head in the crook of Ivushkin’s neck. The nights were too hot for them to sleep like that, even with the door to the balcony open, and though Ivushkin felt extremely uncomfortable, he couldn’t bring himself to push Jäger away.

“If I sink, I can’t go back to you…” Jäger grunted quietly after a while, when Ivushkin was already falling asleep again.

Still, what Jäger meant made it to Ivushkin’s brain and he opened his eyes. The room was dim, and only the open door to the balcony was lighted by the eerie paleness of the moonlight. Crickets could be heard outside. It was quiet and peaceful. He closed his eyes again and nuzzled at Jäger’s hair:

“We’ll always find our way back to each other. Mathematical law,” Ivushkin reminded him.

But, by the way Jäger kept ignoring him during the day and clung so desperately to him at night, Ivushkin knew Jäger didn’t quite believe him.

* * *

 

Some time ago Jäger had bought a camera. Ivushkin had learned of the fact when, working in the workshop, he had been touched from behind and had turned around abruptly – only to have been momently blinded by a flash while Jäger had snorted with laughter.

There was already an album full of photos – most of them capturing Ivushkin at his worst angles. But there were also pictures of Schimmel, and of Panther Tiger, and of course Jäger. And Jäger and Ivushkin, and the two of them with the cat and the horse, and with Jäger’s nephews, and one glorious picture of Katrine glowering at the camera.

Ivushkin was choosing a few pictures among the spares that needed to be put in a new album. He wanted to show his mother a bit of his living and he was certain she would like to meet the horse and the cat.

He heard Jäger approach him, then felt his breath on the back of his neck. He turned his head a little, surprised that the German had decided to stop ignoring him – at least, momently. Yet, Jäger looked uncharacteristically serious:

“Will you tell her?” he asked, looking at the pictures Ivushkin was choosing. Jäger was in none of them:

“No,” Ivushkin didn’t have the courage to tell his mother the reason he wouldn’t go back home was a German man, the former soldier that had defeated him, the former officer that had held him captive.

Jäger hummed his approval and walked away.

Ivushkin supposed that being ignored during the day was Jäger’s personal training to deal with his absence. Ivushkin would rather enjoy their time together, and for several times he felt tempted to get Jäger’s attention – he didn’t, and was content about having it at night.

Yet, Ivushkin doubted Jäger’s training would eventually lead to acceptance.

* * *

 

When Ivushkin put his empty backpack on the bed, he intended to start packing. But when he returned with a few spare clothes and hygiene items, he found the cat nestled in the backpack. The cat had never ventured into the bedroom: Panther Tiger was either a saboteur acting on Jäger’s behalf or simply trying to get Ivushkin’s attention. Ivushkin sighed in defeat, left his things next to the backpack and sat at the edge of the bed, looking disapprovingly at the cat.

Jäger appeared on the doorway shortly after. The seriousness of his face was momently broken as he raised one eyebrow curiously. Ivushkin decided to seize the opportunity to try and ease the mood between them:

“Guess where Tiger is,” he said. Jäger smirked and approached the bed, slowly, then peeked into the backpack and smiled.

Ivushkin hadn’t seen Jäger smile so genuinely since he had announced he was going to visit his mother. His gut clenched slightly when Jäger’s smile died and his face became serious again as he sat next to Ivushkin and handed him a picture.

Jäger’s nephews near the stable with Schimmel’s head appearing at an awkward angle:

“Won’t you show her your nephews?” Jäger asked in a quiet voice.

For a moment Ivushkin was speechless, frozen mid-action of accepting the picture.

They had never discussed the terms, and Ivushkin doubted they ever would. He was content being just a family friend.

But again, Jäger was good at giving – and giving and sharing were just two of his many needs and wants and caprices.

With his free hand, Ivushkin reached for his wallet and left the picture in there, together with the other few he had selected to take to his mother:

“She’ll love them,” Ivushkin assured, mostly to himself. He was confident, however, his mother would be understanding, and seeing he had… a family… waiting for his return would make it easier for her.

Jäger didn’t walk away. Instead, he turned his attention to the cat nestled in Ivushkin’s backpack and started to scratch at the outside of the backpack. Soon enough, the cat was pawing at Jäger’s fingers through the fabric.

Jäger was still upset, but Ivushkin couldn’t determine what else hid under Jäger’s serious face. His eyes, so intense, had become distant. Jäger had hidden well, and though Ivushkin was grateful he hadn’t had to put up with daily tantrums and dramatic outbursts… he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like that he had made it, and he didn’t like that Jäger didn’t let him undo it:

“Don’t you miss your parents?” Ivushkin asked cautiously. Yet, Jäger kept his attention on the cat. “You don’t write them.”

“My parents must have received a visit from the Gestapo. They know I deserted,” Jäger replied nonchalantly. “Besides… I never quite forgave them for missing Kattie’s wedding and the birth of her children.”

Somehow, Ivushkin was not surprised Jäger could hold a grudge against his own parents. He snorted, amazed at the extent of ugliness that dwelled in Jäger and that, most times, Ivushkin forgot was there.

He also forgot Jäger came from a Nazi-supportive family, and all the implications that came from giving up his high rank and disappear with a Russian POW in a stolen plane.

Ivushkin would have laughed at the irony of it, if only he could be certain Jäger would find it as hilarious. Instead, he scooted over him and nuzzled at the back of his neck.

“I never thought that I’d have to compete to get your attention,” he grunted when his efforts proved fruitless and Jäger still seemed more interested in the orange cat, that now had an arm outside the backpack and was trying to reach Jäger’s fingers with sheathed claws.

Ivushkin noticed Jäger clenching and unclenching his jaw, like he wanted to say something. He didn’t, instead allowing the cat to finally capture his hand and pull it inside the backpack.

Ivushkin kept nuzzling at Jäger’s neck:

“If you free my backpack, I’ll reward you handsomely,” he tried.

That had Jäger snorting and chuckling quietly, but briefly. He looked up at Ivushkin, all intensity suddenly – and breathtakingly- back to his gaze:

“Don’t, I’ll miss it,” Jäger replied in a quiet voice. Ivushkin hummed, then shrugged:

“But I’ll be back.”

“But I’ll still miss you…” Jäger complained, like Ivushkin was particularly dense and couldn’t grasp the concept of ‘longing’.

Yet, Ivushkin could. All too well, unfortunately:

“Do you think I won’t miss you, Klaus?” He raised a hand to trace the scars on Jäger’s face. Jäger closed his eyes, slowly, and leaned into the touch. When he moved away from Ivushkin, he picked up the cat from the backpack and held it in his arms – Ivushkin could finally pack up, though he intended to reward Jäger first.

Yet, Jäger preferred to be rewarded later, and walked out of the room carrying the cat in his arms.

* * *

 

Finally, it was time to go. Ivushkin had both longed for and dreaded that day: he would catch the bus to Zürich in the evening, then catch the last train to Berlin… and then catch the first train to Moscow. In his backpack, besides his documents, a few spare clothes and hygiene items, there was also some food.

Ivushkin had to admit he was pleasantly surprised Jäger hadn’t raided the drawer in his bedside table where he kept his documents and his savings – though realising he had _expected_ Jäger to sabotage him in that front made part of him feel very ashamed. Yet, the other part, the rational, logical one, reminded him that Jäger – possessive, controlling – was hurt and unpredictable.

Jäger kept ignoring him, even ate lunch in the studio, leaving Ivushkin in the kitchen with the cat. Yet, after lunch Jäger began to follow Ivushkin around and, judging how Jäger chewed and sucked at his pipe, Ivushkin understood the German was nervous.

The moment Ivushkin threw the backpack over his shoulder, a visibly panicked look crossed Jäger’s face for a second, before Jäger schooled his face into fake indifference – yet, his eyes roved Ivushkin’s face nervously and his pipe was so firmly secured between his teeth that Ivushkin feared that either the mouthpiece or Jäger’s teeth would break and shatter with the pressure.

Standing awkwardly at the front door, Ivushkin spread his arms to embrace Jäger. But Jäger was faster, and Ivushkin found himself trapped in a vicious, uncomfortable grip that forced the air out his lungs:

“I’ll be back!” he reminded Jäger, ruffling his dark hair. “In time for your birthday.”

Jäger sighed, held him for a little longer, then pulled back, chewing insistently at the pipe. He crossed his hands behind his back and nodded. His eyes, shiny and moist, still roved nervously over Ivushkin’s face with burning fierceness.

Ivushkin turned his back and walked to the gate without glancing behind.

He followed the secondary road until it joined the main road outside the village. The bus stop wasn’t far from the intersection, and so he waited there for almost half an hour until the bus to Zürich appeared.

It was already night when Ivushkin arrived at the train station and bought the ticket to Berlin. He hadn’t eaten yet, and only when the train was on the move and he watched, through the window, as Zürich was gradually left behind, did he pick up a sandwich from his backpack to eat.

Ivushkin then tried to sleep, but his mind was restless, drifting constantly from the abandoned look on Jäger’s face to his own excited happiness about finally going to see his mother again. In all honesty, he didn’t feel as happy as he had thought he would feel.

Still, Ivushkin somehow fell asleep, and when he woke up in the morning to the worrying thought of Jäger and his recurring nightmares, the train was already at the station in Berlin. It was early and the ticket offices were still closed, and so Ivushkin decided to take a little stroll outside around the station – he wanted to distract himself and was curious to finally see Berlin.

The sight was… disappointing.

Darkened skeletons of buildings, rubble, patrols and crestfallen civilians. Ivushkin immediately thought Jäger would have a stroke if he saw it.

The centre of German power was destroyed. It was nothing like Ivushkin had imagined, and he wandered in horrified awe along the streets, memorising a few reference points to return to the station.

Perhaps, most of his shock had to do with the fact that he had a comfortable life in the peaceful countryside of a nation that hadn’t been torn apart by bombardments. His routine had numbed his experience from the war and his mind had lost the capacity to produce the kind of scenario unfolding before his eyes.

He walked past several British patrols, looking at their uniforms and weapons and cars like he had never seen anything like that before. Until, slowly, the number of British soldiers decreased… and Ivushkin began to spot more and more Russians.

 _His comrades_.

His first thought was greeting them, ask for news. He wanted to hear someone speak to him in his mother-tongue.

And, like a miracle, Ivushkin saw a familiar face, leaning against the wall of an intact building and smoking. He strode to the lad – now man – with happy tears in the corner of his eyes:

“Vanya!”

The young man turned his head with a frown, but upon seeing Ivushkin widened his eyes and gaped – his cigarette even fell to the ground:

“Comrade junior-lieutenant!” And finally, _Russian_. Ivushkin was already feeling home.

They embraced, laughing and patting each other’s back amiably. Yet, Vanya recomposed himself quickly and pulled away to observe Ivushkin attentively:

“I thought you were dead! The report said-“ he began, but Ivushkin shook his head, smiling:

“I was captured. I… I managed to escape to Switzerland, in 45. I’ve been living there,” Ivushkin explained briefly, but his smile never left his face. He felt ridiculously happy at how delighted he was to talk in his mother-tongue. “But I’m leaving for Moscow, today! I’m going to visit my mother and-“

However, Vanya didn’t follow his enthusiasm.

* * *

 

Night was falling and there was no better lodging than the train station.

Ivushkin was sitting on the floor, his back against a pillar and his head low, looking at the backpack cradled in his arms and mentally cursing his luck.

Vanya had kindly informed him he needed to require a special visa to travel to Moscow, a visa that would take weeks to be made if no opposition was raised. Vanya had also told him that, in the eyes of Soviet law, Ivushkin, who had never surrendered to the enemy, who had tried to escape throughout the years of imprisonment, who just hadn’t made it home after his only successful escape because he had been _stupid_ … was a deserter.

Which meant that _if_ Ivushkin made it to Moscow… he would probably never leave again.

Ivushkin had also been assured there were indeed consequences for receiving and sending letters abroad through the civilian post service.

Vanya had understood, of course, but Vanya was a good man: he had perfectly understood that Ivushkin had survived the best he could, that it had been inevitable that he had a significant other in Switzerland, and that Ivushkin simply wished to show his mother he was alive and well and then go back to his new family in Switzerland. But Vanya was not a commissar from the Interior Ministry, and he hadn’t forgotten that Ivushkin had saved his life by driving their field-kitchen away from the German tank.

And so, he had explained Ivushkin he would have to make a choice.

The one choice Ivushkin didn’t want to make, because he could not put the man who had caused his captivity and held him prisoner above his mother. _His mother_ , who would always love him and be proud of him – or so Ivushkin hoped.

But he also could not leave Jäger, with his endless needs and wants and caprices and unpredictable moods.

He did not want to.

His old hatred towards Jäger returned, albeit briefly. For a moment, however, Ivushkin was free from guilt as he imagined himself back to Russia, living with his mother and never again thinking of the man he left behind and that had stared at him with such a broken-hearted look; for a moment, if felt invigorating to blame Jäger for all that mess, because _if only_ their paths had never crossed…

 _If only_ Ivushkin hadn’t gone down to the riverbank…

 _If only_ Ivushkin had left once Jäger had returned his documents…

With a sigh, Ivushkin let go of his old hatred. What was even the point, if it had been _him_ staying, if _he_ had let Jäger convince him to stay?

Ivushkin then turned his anger to the newspapers and broadcasts in the radio. How come he had not been informed? Why had he never read or heard anything about what was happening?

And again, Ivushkin was trapped… in the worst possible situation. Compared to his current condition, captivity under the Nazis had been nothing but war routine, and staying with Jäger in Switzerland had simply been… a capricious choice. Back then, however, Ivushkin had never thought that such a seemingly simple choice would ever bring the consequences he was facing that night. Ivushkin sighed tiredly: he had to make a decision fast, because Vanya was leaving and, whatever Ivushkin chose, Vanya would do his best to help him.

That night Ivushkin didn’t sleep. He sat on the tiled floor, against a pillar, his back hunched and his head low. His mind was restless as doubt and guilt gnawed at him, devouring him inside to create a void in a human shell. He weighed the thought of his mother, alone in the house, mourning him yet still desperately hopeful he was alive, and the thought of Jäger, alone with the horse and the cat, clinging to Ivushkin’s promise of how he would return. The scale was unfairly even.

The next morning, he went to meet Vanya in a sort of border area among the Russian, English and American sectors in a deserted street near the zoo, littered with debris from reconstruction works of the surrounding buildings.

“Have you taken a decision?” Vanya asked once Ivushkin approached.

Ivushkin had, but he didn’t know if he had chosen wisely and it brought him no peace of mind. His insides were clenched tightly and his throat was knotted, suffocating. Ivushkin nodded, slowly:

“Do you have paper? I need to write a letter.”

From an inside pocket of his overcoat, Vanya produced a small notepad and a pencil. Ivushkin took it with shaky hands and crouched, using a knee for writing support. He knew what he had to write – that he was sorry, basically, but also that he was well.

Ivushkin only wrote in Russian to himself – small ‘to do’ notes, occasionally a shopping list to annoy Jäger – yet never, in his whole life, had his handwriting seemed so childish. With tightly pressed lips, he wrote to his mother. Begged her forgiveness and promised he had a good life. Then, he added an address and a phone number, and ripped the sheet from the notepad. He removed his wallet from his backpack, and from a back compartment in his wallet he picked up the envelope where he had stored the pictures he wanted to give his mother. With increasingly shaky hands, he folded the paper sheet, added it to the pictures, closed the envelope and wrote his mother’s name and address on it.

She would recognise his handwriting. She would, at least, be certain he was alive.

Letting out a breath, Ivushkin stood up again and returned the notepad and pencil to Vanya, together with the envelope:

“I need you to deliver this,” he requested. Vanya read the address and nodded solemnly:

“I will go personally!” Vanya promised. Ivushkin forced a smile:

“And please… tell my mother to use the number and the address I wrote _only_ when there won’t be any consequences for her.”

Vanya nodded again, very serious. Ivushkin was grateful he didn’t judge him for choosing to not return to his motherland.

Ivushkin’s one and only act of treason in his whole life.

But, had he chosen differently, he would still be a traitor. He would never be able to win in both fronts.

They said farewell to each other and walked away in opposite directions. Ivushkin could only hope Vanya would fulfil his promise – Vanya had told him he was leaving back to Moscow the following day and didn’t know if he would return to Berlin or be sent elsewhere… and Ivushkin couldn’t stay there and wait indefinitely.

His chin quivered and his vision blurred as he walked back to the train station.

All he could do from that moment on was continuing with his live and hope for, one day, to hear from his mother. The thought that he wouldn’t be alone was comforting, but did little to clear his vision.

* * *

 

It was late in the night and Ivushkin was exhausted and empty as he followed the secondary road that lead home.

 _Home_. It felt bittersweet, and it was hard to swallow.

Home, where Jäger was waiting, and from where Ivushkin would never leave again if he didn’t hear from his mother – yet, even if he ever did, leaving Jäger would always be temporary.

The gate was locked, the window shutters were closed and the house was dark. Ivushkin had left his keys under the watch of the tank toy, so his only option was climbing over the waist-high wall and that, in Ivushkin’s exhausted condition, felt incredibly difficult.

But finally, Ivushkin was standing before the front door, holding his backpack in a hand, and he rang the bell.

When he thought he would need to ring again, he heard running steps and the door being unlocked, before being open abruptly to first reveal the muzzle of a Luger and then Jäger, aiming precisely between Ivushkin’s eyes, despite the darkness outside. Ivushkin’s heart leaped in his chest and he immediately dropped his backpack and raised his hands, casting Jäger a shocked look.

That was not how he had thought to be welcomed back:

“It’s me!” he announced.

Jäger remained frozen for a moment, then lowered the pistol slowly and switched on the light inside. Ivushkin flinched as the sudden brightness revealed Jäger, in underwear and barefoot, with his hair dishevelled and staring at him with wide, dark eyes. Ivushkin put his hands down and picked up his backpack again, always looking at Jäger:

“It’s just me…” he repeated, quietly.

Ivushkin was instantly pulled inside as Jäger explained hurriedly that the cat, sleeping next to him on the bed, had woken up suddenly, and then the bell had rang – he spoke quickly and in a low voice, and Ivushkin, exhausted, could barely understand him. Ivushkin was vaguely aware of the door being slammed behind him while Jäger held him tightly, and he burrowed his head in the crook of Jäger’s neck, clenching his jaw and keeping his eyes tightly shut.

“I… I didn’t think I’d see you so soon, again. What happened?” Jäger finally asked in a tight voice. Ivushkin took in a lungful of his scent and dropped the backpack:

“Unexpected bureaucracy and Soviet law,” Ivushkin explain briefly. He would tell Jäger – he had to take it off his chest, but not that night. Ivushkin was exhausted and barely holding himself together. He had eaten hours ago, but he wasn’t hungry. He simply wanted to sleep properly, something he had been unable to since his departure, days ago.

Fortunately, Jäger asked no more questions. They made their way upstairs (Ivushkin noticed the cat was curled on the couch), Ivushkin tossed his clothes somewhere while Jäger stored the pistol in the drawer of his bedside table, Ivushkin flopped on the bed and Jäger immediately cradled him against his chest.

Ivushkin went from empty to oddly – blissfully - peaceful. Jäger needed the proximity and so did Ivushkin. He clung to Jäger and allowed one lonely tear to roll down his cheek.

Everything around him was familiar: the village, the house, the furniture, Jäger’s body. It was home, the victorious front, and yet…

Ivushkin woke up the next morning to the feeling of the mattress sinking under Jäger’s weight. Ivushkin sleepily reasoned Jäger must have gone to feed the horse.

And then he _really_ woke up, not in Russia, but in Switzerland.

Jäger was lying by his side again. His face was serious, but all intensity was back to his gaze and he was looking at Ivushkin in that way of his that always left Ivushkin with the impression that Jäger could see his very core, his every thought and his most well-kept secrets.

Ivushkin smiled sadly and looked into Jäger’s eyes, baring himself, and told Jäger about his aborted journey to his motherland.

About the choice he had to make.

Yet again, Jäger was a bad decision that proved to be a good choice. He listened carefully, with no interruptions or smug grins, for once being a gracious winner. Only his eyes showed his excited victory.

When Ivushkin’s voice broke, Jäger pulled Ivushkin close and held him tight for as long as Ivushkin needed to be held.

Which lasted quite a while.

“Otto has contacts in the Red Cross, we could-“ Jäger started softly. Ivushkin shook his head and pulled away slightly, just enough to be able to look Jäger in the eye:

“There hasn’t been a Red Cross organisation in Russia since 38,” Ivushkin informed, then turned to lie on his back.

They were silent for some time. Jäger thumbed away the remaining moisture on Ivushkin’s face while Ivushkin simply stared at the ceiling, his mind blissfully blank until it began to reason again, about what he had lost and what he had gained. Spoils of war, trophies and scars.

All things considered, however, he still had a home, somewhere to belong, people to care for and to care for him. That house had never been a battlefield. The game was still played, but on a board.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at Jäger, simply staring as the German traced his face, then began to thumb at his lips. For the first time since they had known each other, Jäger seemed to be waiting for instructions.

Ivushkin had a promise to fulfil, one of making things better: he knew Jäger couldn’t heal him; yet, for once, he realised he had to let Jäger try. That had been his promise.

Jäger was a wonderful lover.

And definitely not a lousy comrade.

“We’re lucky,” Ivushkin stated and turned on his side again, to face Jäger. He cupped the scarred half of Jäger’s face with a hand:

“We are,” Jäger agreed.

Jäger had brought the chains and Ivushkin had bound himself. And they were both falling into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you watching these idiots struggle with Feels. Feedback is always treasured and appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for you time, please let me know what you thought of it! :')


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